UNIVERSITY  OF 

CALIFORNIA 
SANTA  CRUZ 


\ 


•    I 


ROOSEVELT 
A  Study  in  Ambivalence 


ROOSEVELT 

A  STUDY  IN  AMBIVALENCE 


BY 

GEORGE  SYLVESTER  VIBRBCK 

AUTHOR  OF 

NINEVEH  AND  OTHER  POEMS,"  "THE  CANDLE  AND 
THE  FLAME,"  "CONFESSIONS  OF  A  BARBARIAN" 
ET  CETERA 


NEW    YORK 

JACKSON    PRESS,   ING. 

1919 


COPYRIGHT,  1919 

BY 

GEORGE  SYLVESTER  VIERECK 


To  my  Wife 

Margaret  Edith  Viereck 


*\JEVER  on  the  winning  side, 
1  V      Always  on  the  right  — 
Vanquished,  this  shall  be  our  pride 
In  the  world's  despite. 

Let  the  oily  Pharisees 
Purse  their  lips  and  rant, 

Calm  we  face  the  Destinies: 
Better  "carii"  than  cant. 

Bravely  drain,  then  fling  away, 
Break,  the  cup  of  sorrow! 

Courage!    He  who  lost  the  day 
May  have  won  the  morrow. 


Apologia  Pro  Vita  Sua 


©  Underwood  &  Underwood. 


HIS  book,  dear  reader,  will  be  a  delightful 
secret  between  us.  It  will  not  be  re- 
viewed in  the  American  press.  It  will 
not  even  be  mentioned.  My  psycho- 
analytic interpretation  of  Colonel  Roosevelt  contains 
much  that  is  startling.  It  adds  to  the  portrait  of  Theo- 
dore Roosevelt  a  line  here  and  there  that  cannot  be 
erased  by  the  relentless  years,  nor  by  their  relenting 
historians.  There  is  no  question  that  I  understand  Theo- 
dore Roosevelt.  On  that  point  I  have  Mr.  Roosevelt's 
own  testimony.  Nor  is  there  any  doubt  that  I  can 
wield  a  pen.  The  very  men  who  would  place  a  Maxim 
silencer  on  my  poor  efforts  bear  witness  to  that  fact, 
unless  their  own  literary  verdicts  were  indeed  scraps  of 
paper.  Nevertheless,  in  the  present  instance,  the  voice 
of  the  reviewer  will  be  hushed.  There  may  be,  now 
and  then,  a  quotation  from  one  of  the  Colonel's  letters 
to  me.  There  may  be,  here  and  there,  a  slur.  But  no 
honest  criticism. 

How  account  for  this  phenomenon?     Is  it  because 
the  Poetry  Society  of  America  has  revoked  my  poetic 


12  ROOSEVELT 

license  ?  No,  that  is  not  the  reason.  Is  it  because  I  am 
excommunicated  from  the  ranks  of  the  Authors' 
League?  In  fact,  if  newspaper  accounts  may  be 
trusted,  its  devotees  are  pledged  never  to  utter  the  name 
of  Viereck.  "It  is  understood,"  one  of  the  judges  of 
the  vehmic  court  confided  to  a  reporter  of  a  New  York 
daily  with  a  Paris  edition,  "that  hereafter  no  member 
of  the  Authors'  League  of  America  will  mention  Mr. 
Viereck's  name  again,  nor  refer  to  him  or  his  writings 
in  any  way.  Let  the  request  be  made  to  newspapers  to 
follow  a  similar  course.  With  his  expulsion  from  the 
Authors'  League  and  the  record  of  that  expulsion,  his 
name  becomes  taboo." 

This  mediaeval  sentence  sends  no  shudders  down 
my  spine.  It  carries  jp^pontifical  weight.  New  York 
is  not  Canossa.  Tn^little  popes  of  the  Authors' 
League  have  no  influence  beyond  their  door  mat.  The 
true  cause  for  the  reticence  of  the  press  where  this 
book  is  concerned  lies  deeper.  It  is  not  due  to  fear  of 
the  authorities.  I  have  no  quarrel  with  that  Past- 
Master  of  Censorship,  the  Postmaster-General.  The 
Government  of  the  United  States  finds  no  fault  in  me. 
In  fact,  Government  agencies  co-operated  with  me  in 
several  undertakings  throughout  the  war.  The  Federal 
Government  bears  no  blame.  It  is  the  Invisible  Gov- 
ernment that  interdicts  this  book. 


ROOSEVELT  13 

THERE  are  those  who  pooh-pooh  this  assertion. 
' 'You,"  they  say,  "court  unpopularity.  Your 
egotism  (Narcissus  Complex,  in  the  parlance  of  Freud) 
has  offended  many."  True,  I  have  enemies.  But  I 
also  have  friends.  Le  Gallienne  called  me  "The  mar- 
vellous boy  .who  perished  in  conceit."  "The  marvellous 
boy  who  conquered  in  his  pride,"  rejoined  William 
Ellery  Leonard.  Self-assertion  is  no  handicap.  Im- 
pudence has  its  uses.  I  was  not  for  that  reason  de- 
nied a  hearing.  My  faults  are  assets.  They  are  not 
responsible  for  the  embargo  on  legitimate  criticism. 

I  have  strayed  far  from  the  common  path  to  con- 
found the  Philistines.  Do  you  think  they  ostracized  me 
for  that?  Oh,  no!  The  poor  dears  were  grateful.  I 
defied  their  conventions  in  prose  and  verse.  My  "Game 
at  Love,"  revolutionary  even  now,  was  a  daring  ex- 
periment in  1906.  It  is  the  precursor  of  many  plays 
that  now  fill  the  little  theaters,  although  its  miniature 
dramakins,  written  like  Hardy's  "Dynasts"  and  Byron's 
"Manfred"  for  mental  performance,  were  actually  pro- 
duced only  in  Japan. 

My  Muse  need  not  rouge  her  lips  in  order  to  meet 
the  challenge  of  Swinburne's.  "Nineveh,"  "The  Candle 
and  the  Flame,"  and  "Songs  of  Armageddon,"  cannot 
be  accused  of  being  anaemic.  "Leaves  of  Grass"  may 
be  more  starkly  naked.  It  is  not  more  audacious.  Per- 
haps my  probe  sinks  in  too  deep  for  the  comprehension 
of  middle-class  intellects.  My  vocabulary  alone  suffices 


14  ROOSEVELT 

to  save  me  from  the  fate  of  Theodore  Dreiser,  whose 
masterly  novel,  "The  Genius"  is  still  on  the  index.  The 
libido  of  the  Comstockians  is  limitless.  Their  verbal 
paucity  is  astonishing.  Their  dictionary  hardly  sur- 
passes that  of  infantile  mural  decorators.  My  sins 
against  Mrs.  Grundy  are  not  held  against  me.  Mrs. 
Grundy  secretly  loves  me.  She  absolves  me  because 
she  does  not  understand  me. 

"PERHAPS,"  one  of  my  readers  urges,  "the  writers 
JL  of  America  do  not  forgive  you  for  descending 
from  Parnassus  into  the  arena  of  politics.  Poetry  and 
politics  are  uncongenial  companions!"  In  these  days 
even  the  shoemaker  is  a  syndicalist.  He  no  longer 
sticks  to  his  last.  Must  the  poet  stick  to  his  lyre?  Who 
shall  say  that  H.  G.  Wells,  Henri  Barbusse,  and  Ro- 
main  Rolland  have  no  share  in  shaping  the  destiny  of 
mankind?  The  typewriter  is  mightier  than  the  ma- 
chine gun.  Logic,  more  potent  than  Busy  Berthas. 
Time  turns  the  old  days  to  derision.  An  academician 
in  the  White  House  gives  a  new  twist  to  the  history 
of  the  world.  Two  intellectuals,  Lenine  and  Trotzky, 
are  making  the  most  stupendous  experiment  in  the 
evolution  of  human  freedom,  an  experiment  involving 
one  hundred  and  fifty  million  people.  A  third-rate 
novelist  is  premier  of  France. 

The  greatest  living  playwright,  deserting  the  boards 
for  the  time  being,  teaches  statesmen  straight  think- 


ROOSEVELT  15 

ing.  The  world's  greatest  pianist  is  molding  the  fate 
of  Poland.  A  minor  poet,  Kurt  Eisner,  was  the  first 
dictator  of  the  Bavarian  Republic.  A  great  poet 
fanned  Italy's  martial  fervor.  D'Annunzio  did  his 
utmost  to  embroil  his  country  in  war.  I,  in  my  humble 
way,  did  my  utmost  to  keep  my  country  at  peace. 
D'Annunzio  succeeded.  I  failed.  He  is  proud  of  his 
efforts.  I  am  not  ashamed  of  mine.  History  may 
grant  me  a  footnote  in  the  annals  of  the  Great  War. 
That  is  no  reason  why  Literature  should  not  give  me  a 
chapter  in  hers.  No,  politics  is  not  responsible  for  the 
attempt  to  excommunicate  me. 


TENDER  souls  may  feel  aggrieved  because,  for- 
sooth, po  political  movement  can  be  carried  on 
without  funds.  The  most  fetching  sonnet  will  not 
pay  for  a  two-cent  stamp.  Printers  insist  on  cold  cash. 
In  that  respect  they  differ  in  no  way  from  the  China- 
man. "No  money,  no  washee."  The  most  fiery 
rhetoric  cannot  fill  one  pay  envelope.  Landlords  are 
singularly  unsympathetic.  Fighting,  almost  single- 
handed,  against  the  greatest  combination  of  political 
power  and  finance  ever  aggregated  in  one  camp,  I 
turned  for  assistance  to  those  to  whose  interest  it  was 
to  help  me.  Is  a  reformer  insincere  because  he  accepts 
campaign  contributions?  Is  Billy  Sunday  a  hypocrite 
if  he  grants  his  flock  the  privilege  of  contributing 


16  ROOSEVELT 

towards  the  expenses  of  his  attempt  to  make  the  world 
safe  for  Jesus? 

Before  America  entered  the  war,  as  Dr.  Edmund  von 
Mach  pointed  out  in  a  hearing  before  the  Propaganda 
Investigating  Committee  of  the  United  States  Senate, 
there  was  in  this  country  an  official  German  Propa- 
ganda, exactly  as  there  was  an  official  American  Propa- 
ganda in  England  during  the  Civil  War,  when  Lincoln 
sent  Thurlow  Weed,  Senator  Evarts,  and  Henry  Ward 
Beecher  across  the  ocean  to  keep  our  British  cousins 
neutral.  Count  Bernstorff,  like  President  Wilson,  la- 
bored to  maintain  peace.  In  addition,  there  was  a 
propaganda  of  American  citizens,  many,  but  not  all,  of 
German  descent,  who  believed  that  it  was  to  the  interest 
of  America  to  remain  aloof  from  European  entangle- 
ments. The  amount  appropriated  for  the  purpose  of 
the  so-called  German  Propaganda  was  pitiful,  compared 
with  the  enormous  sums  lavished  by  its  opponents  un- 
der the  leadership  of  Lord  Northcliffe  and  Sir  Gilbert 
Parker. 

German  Propaganda  was  a  direct  descendant  of 
British  Propaganda.  The  relation  between  the  two  is 
that  of  cause  and  effect.  The  one  necessarily  gave 
birth  to  the  other.  It  was  a  method  adopted,  for  solely 
patriotic  reasons,  by  many  Americans  to  combat  British 
domination  in  American  life.  Some  fight  the  Devil 
with  Holy  Water.  Others  prefer  to  fight  fire  with  fire. 
A  combination  of  both  modes  of  procedure  suggests 


ROOSEVELT  17 

itself  to  the  judicious.  British  Propaganda  is  a  chronic 
disease  of  the  American  body  politic.  In  1914  it  be- 
came epidemic.  It  is  a  subject  that  thrusts  itself  upon 
us  again  and  again  in  the  course  of  this  diagnosis. 
The  so-called  German  Propaganda  almost  succeeded, 
against  tremendous  odds  and  wellnigh  invincible  ob- 
stacles, in  its  object,  to  keep  us  out  of  war.  Its  failure 
in  the  end  was  due  to  the  inept  declaration  of  unre- 
stricted submarine  warfare  by  the  German  Government 
and  to  the  preposterous  Zimmermann  note.  German 
Propaganda,  in  other  words,  was  defeated,  not  in 
Washington,  but  in  Berlin. 

In  spite  of  its  restricted  expenditures,  this  campaign 
had  to  be  financed.  I  printed  and  distributed  millions 
of  pamphlets.  The  postage  alone  would  have  swal- 
lowed my  royalties.  I  would  gladly  have  sacrificed 
my  entire  fortune  to  propitiate  the  powers  that  made 
for  war.  Yet  all  I  have  in  the  world  would  have  hardly 
sufficed  to  pay  the  printer's  bill  for  one  week.  The 
other  side  probably  expended  ten  dollars  to  our  one! 
These  facts  are  matters  of  common  knowledge.  The 
objection  to  this  phase  of  propaganda  is  the  rankest 
hypocrisy.  The  reason  for  the  grievance  against  me 
lies  deeper  still. 

WHAT  is  that?     My  pro-Germanism?     Fiddle- 
sticks!   My  championship  of  Germany  did  not, 
at  first,  tell  against  me.    I  never  concealed  my  German 


18  ROOSEVELT 

affiliations.  While  I  was  still  in  my  teens  the  late  Pro- 
fessor Hugo  Muensterberg,  of  Harvard,  introduced  me 
to  the  Boston  Authors'  Club  as  "Germany's  first  con- 
tribution to  American  literature."  Julia  Ward  Howe, 
the  president  of  the  club,  did  not  remonstrate  with  the 
professor.  Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson,  who  pre- 
sided that  evening,  received  me  into  his  bosom;  and 
that  oracle  of  New  England,  the  Boston  "Transcript," 
proclaimed  my  talents  "a  gift  straight  from  the  gods." 

"The  splendid  heritage  of  two  languages  has  fallen 
to  me  from  a  German  father  and  an  American  mother," 
I  proudly  proclaimed  in  the  preface  to  "Nineveh."  In 
the  preface  to  the  "Candle  and  the  Flame,"  I  describe 
at  length  my  first  experience  as  an  American  Exchange 
Poet  at  the  University  of  Berlin.  In  the  "Confessions 
of  a  Barbarian,"  I  portray  myself  as  a  young  American 
barbarian  who  for  the  first  time  finds  himself  face  to 
face  with  Kultur.  The  book  is  a  panegyric  on  Ger- 
many. Nevertheless,  it  was  greeted  with  shouts  of  ap- 
proval from  the  majority  of  its  American  critics. 

Even  my  tribute  to  the  Kaiser,  "O  Prince  of  Peace, 
O  Lord  of  War"  (published  in  the  "Songs  of  Arma- 
geddon"), was  widely  acclaimed  and  universally  re- 
printed. Perhaps  the  public  was  prepared  for  my 
dithyrambic  praise  of  the  Kaiser  by  the  rhapsodies  of 
Nicholas  Murray  Butler  on  the  same  subject.  May  I 
not  here  make  a  belated  acknowledgment  of  my  indebt- 
edness to  President  Butler?  His  enthusiasm  was  in- 


ROOSEVELT  19 

fectious.  My  Muse  merely  lisped  in  numbers  the  echoes 
of  his  strain.  This  acknowledgment  discharges  my 
obligation.  Baked,  like  some  hapless  antediluvian  fos- 
sil, in  the  lava  of  my  eloquence,  his  name  may  escape 
oblivion. 


BUT  what  of  Ireland?  Many  who  would  forgive 
Pro-Germanism  in  me,  resented  my  solicitude  for 
Irish  Independence.  They  confound  American  patriot- 
ism with  loyalty  to  Great  Britain.  All  the  little  John 
Bullocks  shuddered  when  I  took  John  Bull  by  the  horns. 
They  deny  he  has  horns.  They  playfully  conceal  even 
his  cloven  hoof.  Uncle  Sam  employed  in  one  of  his 
bureaus  Mr.  Blank,  a  dollar-a-year  man,  who,  in  bis 
private  capacity,  was  the  publisher  of  thrilling  detective 
fiction.  The  war  gave  him  the  opportunity  to  trans- 
late his  grotesque  theories  into  practice.  Eagerly  he 
tracked  the  Pro-German  criminal  to  his  lair,  according 
to  the  most  approved  methods  of  the  infallible  Hawk- 
shaw.  When  facts  failed  him,  he  drew  upon  his  in- 
exhaustible imagination.  German-Irish  plots  were  his 
dearest  hobby.  Eventually  the  activities  of  this  ama- 
teur detective  became  embarrassing  to  the  authorities. 
He  was  removed  to  a  field  where  his  talents  as  a  spin- 
ner of  dime-novel  yarns  were  unable  to  jeopardize  the 
good  name  of  the  Government  and  the  lives  of  his  fel- 
low men. 


20  ROOSEVELT 

Mr.  Blank,  at  an  informal  hearing  where  I  appeared 
as  a  matter  of  courtesy  to  the  Government,  was  sud- 
denly sprung  upon  me.  He  had  been  glaring  at  me 
ferociously  for  over  an  hour.  I  consented  to  answer 
a  few  questions  from  him,  but  objected  to  the  offensive- 
ness  of  his  manner.  He  humbly  apologized  and  prom- 
ised to  be  as  tender  with  me  "as  a  mother  with  her 
suckling  babe."  He  succeeded  in  repressing  his  natural 
inclinations  until  the  question  of  Ireland  was  raised. 
"Have  you,"  he  roared,  "met  Sir  Roger  Casement?" 
I  regretted  that  I  had  not  had  the  honor.  "But,"  I 
said,  "I  have  dedicated  a  poem  to  him."  "Don't  you 
know  that  he  was  a  traitor?"  he  shouted.  "No  more," 
I  replied,  "than  George  Washington."  If  Mr.  Blank 
was  white  before,  he  now  grew  whiter.  In  his  rage 
he  surpassed  himself.  Addressing  me  in  language  unfit 
for  a  bawdy  house,  or  for  quotation,  he  shrieked :  "If 
you  said  that  to  me  on  the  street  I  would  knock  you 
down." 

Evidently  this  remark  was  made  with  the  intention  to 
goad  me  into  an  assault  upon  an  officer  of  the  law.  The 
insult  itself  would  have  been  brazenly  denied.  Such 
a  lie  would  have  seemed  a  white  lie  to  the  ill-favored 
gangsters  who  were  determined  to  "get  me."  Penetrat- 
ing their  motive,  I  gazed  at  Mr.  Blank  half  with  amaze- 
ment, half  with  compassion.  His  case,  to  my  mind, 
was  not  lacking  in  pathological  elements.  Turning  to 
the  official  under  whose  auspices  the  hearing  was  os- 


ROOSEVELT  21. 

tensibly  taking  place,  I  remarked  with  the  lift  of  an 
eyebrow,  "This  is  hardly  parliamentary  language,"  and 
demanded  protection  from  insult.  Needless  to  say,  the 
incident  was  stricken  from  the  record.  I  choose  to  pre- 
serve it  here.  What  is  more,  I  shall  also  cite  my  poem 
in  commemoration  of  Ireland's  bloodiest  Easter : 

THE   STING 

IN  MEMORY  OF  PADRAIC  PEARSE  AND 
ROGER  CASEMENT 

Not  all  the  blood  on  Stephens  Green  they  shed, 
Thy  murdered  Pearses,  and  thy  Casement's  fate, 
Can  add  one  fathom  to  thine  ancient  hate, 

Nor  make  thy  gaoler's  gory  hand  more  red, 

For  persecution  is  thy  daily  bread. 

Death  has  no  sting,  since  through  thy  dungeon's  gate 
Falls  the  first  dawn.    Ah,  thou  hast  learned  to  wait, 

A  crozvn  of  thorns  upon  thy  tragic  head! 

But  that  this  land  for  whom  thy  sons  have  bled 
As  for  their  own,  forgetful  of  her  dead, 

Unto  the  foe  betrayed  both  thee  and  them, 
That  one  amongst  us  played  the  Judas  part, 

Blots  out  the  stars  in  Freedom's  diadem, 
And  drives  a  knife  in  every  freeman's  heart. 


22  ROOSEVELT 

THESE  lines  were  inspired  by  John  Devoy's  state- 
ment that  Sir  Roger  Casement  and  Padraic  Pearse 
were  betrayed  to  the  English  hangman  by  a  denaturalized 
American  citizen.  The  emotion  of  the  poem  is  genuine, 
even  if  the  information  should  prove  to  be  spurious.  I 
hope  Mr.  Blank  will  paste  this  sonnet  in  his  scrap-book. 
Or,  if  he  has  no  scrap-book,  let  him  deposit  it  in  his 
pipe,  and  smoke  it.  I  am  discussing  my  altercation 
with  Mr.  Blank,  not  because  the  incident  is  of  intrinsic 
importance,  but  because  it  is  typical  of  the  Reign  of 
Terror  induced  in  every  part  of  the  country  by  lawless 
private  agencies  abusing  specious  or  borrowed  author- 
ity to  torture  and  bulldoze  American  citizens.  Wrapped 
in  the  flag  the  repressed  Sadism  of  generations  found 
its  release  in  brutal  persecution.  Many  months  later, 
I  made  the  amazing  discovery  that  Mr.  Blank,  the  pub- 
lisher, as  distinguished  from  Mr.  Blank,  the  sleuth,  had 
sold  the  imprint  of  his  firm  for  the  publication  of  a 
German  Propaganda  book.  It  was  an  excellent  book. 
It  went  straight  to  the  mark.  A  bull's-eye  shot. 

Perhaps,  unconsciously,  Mr.  Blank  was  a  violent 
Irish-German  sympathizer.  Here,  too,  we  may  find 
that  element  of  ambivalence  of  which  we  shall  hear  more 
anon.  For  I  can  hardly  believe  that  the  passage  of 
German  money,  involving  about  five  hundred  dollars, 
would  have  been  sufficient  in  itself  to  overcome  Mr. 
Blank's  moral  scruples.  Undaunted  by  my  experience 
with  Mr.  Blank,  I  remained  a  champion  of  Self-Deter- 


ROOSEVELT  23 

initiation  for  Ireland.  This  attitude  doubled  the  num- 
ber of  my  foes.  It  infuriated  many  Blanks.  The  green, 
white  and  orange  flag  of  the  Irish  Republic  produces 
on  them  the  psychological  effect  of  a  red  rag  on  mem- 
bers of  that  family,  noted  more  for  its  powers  of 
multiple  mastication  than  for  its  intelligence,  of 
whom  Pythagoras  slaughtered  one  hundred  when  he 
robbed  the  hypothenuse  of  its  secret.  Since  that  time, 
as  Heine  observes,  all  bovines  tremble  when  a  new  truth 
is  discovered.  Nevertheless,  even  my  love  for  Ireland 
does  not  account  for  the  rancor  of  my  opponents. 

NEITHER  my  Pro-Germanism  nor  my  Gaelic 
affiliations  are  responsible  for  the  boycott  of 
my  Muse.  My  real  offence,  surprising  as  this  may 
seem,  is  nothing  less  than  my  Americanism.  When 
I  adopted  the  motto,  "America  First  and  America 
Only,"  my  goose  was  cooked.  Cooked?  Toasted 
brown  would  be  more  correct.  The  constant  chatter 
about  German  Propaganda  is  intended  to  distract  our 
attention  from  another,  far  more  formidable,  propa- 
ganda. This  propaganda  began  in  1776.  It  has  con- 
tinued to  the  present  day. 

Benedict  Arnold  was  the  first  of  a  long  line  of 
propagandists.  The  torch  of  Toryism  passed  from 
hand  to  hand.  In  1820  a  Higginson  in  Boston  headed 
a  movement  for  the  secession  of  Massachusetts  from 
the  Union,  with  the  object  of  rejoining  the  "Mother 


24  ROOSEVELT 

Land."  The  secret  will  of  Cecil  Rhodes*  makes  definite 
provisions  for  a  campaign  to  regain  the  "Lost  Colo- 
nies/' Huge  Foundations  support  this  movement  with 
more  than  a  king's  ransom.  It  appears  in  many  pro- 
tean disguises. 

Corps  of  writers,  editors,  lecturers,  university  presi- 
dents, corporation  lawyers,  professors  and  poets,  all 
"dupes  and  tools  of  foreign  influence,"  are  the  mummers 
in  this  puppet  show.  The  ebbs  and  tides  of  American 
politics  reflect  merely  different  phases  of  one  gigantic 
purpose.  Now  silent,  now  vociferous,  now  covert, 
now  in  the  open,  it  never  ceases  and  never  sleeps.  If 
my  sins  had  been  seventy  times  seven,  they  would  have 
been  shriven.  What  could  not  be  passed  over  nor  con- 
doned was  my  reiteration  of  the  Declaration  of  Inde- 
pendence. 

"True,"  I  said,  "I  am  of  German  blood.  I  am  proud 
of  my  ancestry.  I  desire  to  interpret  what  is  best  in 
the  land  of  my  fathers  to  the  land  of  my  children.  But 
America  is  first  in  my  heart.  The  American  of  to- 
morrow must  not  be  a  Germanized  American,  and  he 
shall  not  be  an  Englishman.  Let  him  take  from  Ger- 
many and  from  England  and  from  all  lands  whatever 
gifts  there  be,  but  let  him  place  all  in  the  lap  of 
Columbia." 

*  For  more  information  on  this  remarkable  document,  consult 
"The  Life  of  the  Right  Hon.  Cecil  Rhodes,"  by  Sir  Lewis  Mitchel, 
Vol.  I,  chapter  VI,  page  689. 


ROOSEVELT  25 

MY  eyes  are  not  blinded  by  the  prejudices  of  race. 
I  am  willing  to  look  beyond  the  confines  of  na- 
tionality. Gladly  would  I  swear  fealty  to  a  Parliament 
of  Man,  but  I  refuse  to  take  stock  in  a  close  corpora- 
tion of  the  nations  of  the  Entente,  monopolizing  land, 
sea  and  air,  with  John  Bull  in  control  of  the  majority 
holdings.  To  preach  this  doctrine  is  to  commit  literary 
suicide.  It  is  no  longer  good  form  to  admire  George 
Washington.  The  power  that  revises  our  school  his- 
tories (even  if  it  cannot  alter  our  history)  places  its 
iron  fist  upon  the  mouths  of  those  who  promulgate 
the  gospel  of  Americanism. 

Our  political  life  boasts  of  many  apostles,  preaching 
many  divergent  articles  of  faith.  The  Great  Silent 
Government  forgives  all  heresies  save  one :  "Thou  Shalt 
Have  No  Other  Country  Above  America/'  The 
prophet  whose  sermon  runs  thus,  his  name  is  anathema. 
William  Randolph  Hearst,  William  Jennings  Bryan, 
Robert  M.  La  Follette,  Champ  Clark,  James  R.  Mann, 
Daniel  F.  Cohalan,  William  Hale  Thompson  and  Samuel 
Untermyer,  no  matter  how  far  apart  their  political  poles 
may  be,  are  equally  under  the  ban.  Of  late,  something 
of  the  curse  seems  to  have  fallen  even  on  President  Wil- 
son. And  I,  humble  poet  though  I  be,  feel  its  heavy 
hand. 


26  ROOSEVELT 

HP  HE  vengeance  of  the  Invisible  Governors  reaches 
1  far.  No  less  than  forty  life  insurance  companies 
refused  to  accept  me  after  America  entered  the  war, 
with  the  feeble  excuse  that  my  political  views  entailed 
too  great  a  risk.  What  a  comment  on  American  democ- 
racy if  this  were  anything  but  a  disingenuous  pretext! 
The  Insurance  Trust  blacklisted  me  because,  long  be- 
fore the  United  States  joined  the  ranks  of  the  belliger- 
ents, I  protested  in  my  journal  against  their  reckless 
investments  in  the  war  loans  of  foreign  nations.  The 
"War  Plotters  of  Wall  Street,"  by  Charles  A.  Collman, 
to  which  I  gave  circulation,  exposed  the  secret  ramifi- 
cations and  interlinking  directorates  of  the  insurance 
companies  and  the  offices  of  foreign  banking  interests. 
My  objections  against  loans  by  American  financial  in- 
stitutions to  the  Government  of  the  Czar  were  not 
forgotten  in  this  connection. 

To  deny  my  family  the  protection  of  insurance  was 
merely  one  mode  of  attack.  Every  obstacle  was  placed 
in  the  way  of  my  business.  Bookstalls,  coerced  and 
intimidated,  no  longer  dared  to  display  my  magazines 
or  my  writings.  It  was  made  difficult  for  me  to  obtain 
office  space  in  New  York.  My  publishers,  Moffat,  Yard 
&  Co.,  sullenly  requested  me  to  take  back  my  books,  the 
very  books  to  which  they  owe  their  original  prestige. 
In  five  heavy  boxes,  the  plates  of  my  works  (both  prose 
and  verse),  descended  upon  me.  Like  so  many  chickens, 
my  songs  came  home  to  roost. 


ROOSEVELT  27 

Mobs  were  inspired  by  insidious  newspaper  cam- 
paigns to  menace  my  house  in  a  peaceful  suburb  mis- 
named Mount  Vernon.  I  heard  the  tramp,  tramp,  tramp 
of  many  feet.  Automobiles,  mounted  by  men  in  uni- 
form, were  ready  to  kidnap  me.  These  things  were 
not  spontaneous.  They  were  not  begotten  of  war  ex- 
citement. Everything  was  carefully,  skillfully,  cau- 
tiously planned. 

Officials  were  found  who,  prostituting  their  brief 
authority  for  private  political  gain,  poisoned  the  public 
mind,  not  by  prosecuting  me — there  was  no  basis  for 
prosecution — but  by  publishing  piecemeal  the  distorted 
or  perjured  testimony  of  dismissed  and  discredited 
agents,  of  scoundrels  and  scalawags.  Bureaus,  hardly 
intended  for  such  purposes,  burnt  midnight  electricity 
at  the  expense  of  the  public  to  encompass  my  ruin.  My 
employees  were  alternately  threatened  with  internment 
and  tempted  with  offers  of  lucrative  situations  to  bear 
false  witness  against  me. 


THE  chief  object  of  these  machinations  was  to  pro- 
vide the  press  with  specious  charges  and  sinister 
insinuations.  The  Department  of  Justice,  true  to  its 
name,  resisted  the  pressure  of  my  detractors.  But  the 
desired  end,  to  discredit  me,  to  exclude  me  from  the 
work  of  reconstruction  on  an  all-American  basis,  was, 
at  least  partly,  accomplished.  My  efforts  to  aid  the 


28  ROOSEVELT 

Government,  through  the  instrumentality  of  the  Agricul- 
tural and  Industrial  Labor  Relief,  by  finding  work  for 
those  unfortunates  whom  the  war  had  deprived  of  their 
livelihood,  was  represented  as  a  diabolical  scheme  to 
gather  information  for  the  Wilhelmstrasse ! 

My  very  success  was  turned  against  me.  The  6,000 
applicants  who  were  indebted  to  my  bureau  for  the 
opportunity  of  earning  their  bread  on  farm  or  factory 
became  6,000  spies.  Did  the  newspapers  believe  this 
preposterous  twaddle?  Of  course  not.  They  could  not 
think  so  little  of  our  Secret  Service,  no  matter  how  low 
they  may  have  rated  my  patriotism.  The  actual  con- 
duct of  the  Agricultural  and  Industrial  Labor  Relief 
was  in  the  hands  of  an  expert,  Mr.  Gerard  M.  Hessels, 
recommended  to  me  by  the  Federal  State  Superintend- 
ent of  the  United  States  Employment  Service  for  the 
State  of  New  York.  When  the  task  of  the  Labor 
Relief  was,  in  a  large  measure,  completed,  Mr.  Hessels 
received  a  commission  from  the  Department  of  Labor. 
However,  no  interviewer  ever  sought  out  Mr.  Hessels, 
for  the  simple  reason  that  the  newspapers  did  not  de- 
sire the  facts.  They  preferred  to  obtain  their  informa- 
tion from  the  ex-convicts  attached  to  the  staff  of  a  local 
political  officeholder,  hankering  for  notoriety  and  re- 
election. 

The  campaign  of  vilification  did  not  stop  here.  My 
personal  integrity  was  questioned.  I  was  portrayed  as 


ROOSEVELT  29 

a  selfish  exploiter,  a  ravenous  wolf  in  the  sheep's  clothes 
of  charity.  The  object  of  these  tactics  was  to  alienate 
my  following.  Fortunately,  the  attempt  proved  futile. 
The  Agricultural  and  Industrial  Labor  Relief  published 
careful  financial  statements.  Our  books  were  open  to 
all.  But  no  newspaper,  no  official,  made  the  slightest 
attempt  to  inquire  into  the  truth  of  these  charges.  My 
replies  were  ignored.  The  figures  of  our  expert  account- 
ants appeared  nowhere  except  in  my  own  magazine.  My 
first  impulse  was  to  sue  my  defamers  for  libel.  How- 
ever, my  attorneys  had  less  faith  in  American  justice 
under  the  pressure  of  war  conditions  than  I  had.  Inci- 
dentally, it  was  by  no  means  an  easy  task  when  the 
storm  was  at  its  height  to  obtain  legal  representation! 
All  this  seems  now  like  an  evil  dream.  It  will  seem  in- 
credible in  the  future. 


FORTUNATELY  I  had  an  attorney  who  never 
deserted  me.  He  was  at  my  elbow  day  and  night. 
I  think  that  I  am  responsible  for  the  touch  of  silver  on 
his  youthful  head.  It  is  no  easy  task  to  keep  a  man 
out  of  jail  who  insists  on  free  speech  even  in  times  of 
war.  The  following  is  a  literal  transcript  of  an  incident 
in  the  office  of  my  attorney.  I  reprint  it  here  not  for 
its  literary  value,  but  because  of  its  importance  as  a 
historical  document. 

The  dramatic  rights  are  not  reserved. 


30  ROOSEVELT 

BEYOND    REDRESS 
A  Comedy  in  One  Act 

TIME:  America  Under  the  Terror. 

PLACE:  The  Office  of  a  Distinguished  Attorney. 

DRAMATIS  PERSONAE.  ATTORNEY  I. 

ATTORNEY  II. 
AN  EDITOR. 

EDITOR.  (Excitedly.)  They  accuse  me  of  every  crime 
in  the  calendar.  (Points  to  a  bulging  envelope  marked 
"Romeike")  I  have  robbed  the  poor  and  fleeced  the  rich. 
They  will  next  accuse  me  of  stealing  silver  spoons.  .  .  . 

ATTORNEY  I.  Your  friends  won't  believe  these  stories. 
Nothing  that  you  can  say  will  convince  your  enemies. 

ATTORNEY  II.     (Nods  wisely.) 

EDITOR.  But  can  I  not  sue  them  for  libel?  They  at- 
tribute to  me  statements  that  I  never  made.  They  saddle 
me  with  offenses  of  which  I  am  unmistakably  innocent.  I 
am  not  a  plaster  saint,  but  I  have  always  held  my  honor 
inviolate.  I  want  to  vindicate  it  in  court. 

ATTORNEY  II.  That  would  be  an  expensive  and,  un- 
der the  circumstances,  a  futile  proceeding. 

EDITOR.  Damn  the  expense!  They  credit  me  with 
riches  beyond  my  dreams,  but  if  I  can  collect  damages 
for  all  the  slanders  printed  about  me,  I  could  retire  from 
business. 

ATTORNEY  I.     You  will  not  be  able  to  collect  six  cents. 


ROOSEVELT  31 

EDITOR.  What?  Am  I  not  to  defend  my  reputation? 
My  detractors  have  taken  the  most  patriotic  and  the  most 
unselfish  thing  I  did  in  my  life  and  turned  it  into  a  club 
against  me. 

ATTORNEY  II.     It  will  be  a  boomerang. 

EDITOR.  It  may  be  a  boomerang,  but  what  good  will 
that  do  me  if  the  public  merely  sees  the  lump  on  my  head? 

ATTORNEY  II.  Suing  newspapers  is  always  pretty  poor 
business.  In  times  like  these,  you  have  no  chance  at  all. 
There  is  an  old  legal  maxim  that  for  every  wrong  there 
is  a  redress.  But  that  isn't  true.  There  is  no  redress  for 
some  wrongs. 

EDITOR.  You  mean  to  say  that  I  must  calmly  submit  to 
these  villainous  persecutions? 

ATTORNEY  I.  Supposing  you  sue.  They  will  put  you 
on  the  witness  stand.  They  will  probe  every  act  of  your 
life.  They  will  go  back  to  the  day  of  your  birth.  They 
may  go  even  beyond  that.  The  question  of  your  innocence 
or  your  guilt  will  not  figure  at  all.  They  will  ask  you: 
Are  you  a  German? 

EDITOR.     I  am  an  American  citizen. 

ATTORNEY  I.  They  will  ask  you:  Where  were  you 
born?  Where  is  your  father?  Where  is  your  mother? 
What  did  you  say  about  the  Lusitania?  Deny,  if  you 
dare,  that  you  once  had  a  cup  of  tea  with  von  Papen.  The 
ghosts  of  your  editorials  will  be  cited  against  you.  Every 
line  that  ever  appeared  in  your  paper  will  be  perverted. 

EDITOR.     I   am  guilty  of  no  disloyalty.     Like  many 
thousands,  perhaps  millions,  of  good  citizens  of  the  United 


32  ROOSEVELT 

States,  I  did  not  sympathize  with  our  present  associates 
in  the  war.  My  allegiance  is,  was,  and  always  has  been, 
with  my  country,  the  United  States. 

ATTORNEY  II.     (Wearily.)    I  know. 

EDITOR.  My  accusers  spread  all  manner  of  false  im- 
pressions by  rehearsing  accounts  of  my  actions  prior  to 
April  6,  1917.  But  they  cannot  discover  any  act  on  my 
part  that  has  not  been  absolutely  loyal  and  patriotic. 

ATTORNEY  I.  It  makes  no  difference.  They  will  create 
an  atmosphere;  They  will  introduce  the  race  issue.  They 
will  beat  the  drum  in  the  jury  room. 

ATTORNEY  II.  If  no  jury  could  be  found  to  convict 
the  murderers  of  Praeger,  the  young  German  who  was 
lynched  in  Illinois,  what  jury  will  punish  your  traducers 
for  libel? 

EDITOR.  It  is  perfectly  plain  that  these  people  are  at- 
tempting to  undermine  the  faith  of  my  readers  in  me  in 
order  to  destroy  whatever  power  for  good  I  may  possess 
now  and  in  the  future.  If  I  cannot  sue  them  for  libel, 
may  I  not  at  least  issue  a  statement  that  will  raise  hell  ? 

ATTORNEY  II.     (Puts  up  his  hands  deprecatingly.) 

EDITOR.  (Takes  out  a  voluminous  manuscript  from  his 
pocket  and  places  it  in  the  hands  of  Attorney  I.  The  paper 
audibly  sizzles.) 

ATTORNEY  I.  (Reads  the  statement.  A  broad  smile 
spreads  over  his  features.)  Good  for  you!  It's  excel- 
lent! 

EDITOR.     I  am  glad  you  like  it. 

ATTORNEY  I.     Yes,  but  don't  publish  it. 

EDITOR.    Why  not? 


ROOSEVELT  33 

ATTORNEY  I.  It  is  not  necessary  to  howl  with  the 
wolves,  but  at  least  give  them  no  opportunity  for  howling 
at  you.  The  more  you  have  to  say,  the  more  chance  you 
give  them  to  get  back  at  you. 

ATTORNEY  II.  The  channels  of  publicity  are  open  to 
your  foes.  They  are  not  open  to  you.  Their  statements 
are  carried  on  the  front  page.  How  much  of  your  state- 
ment would  ever  get  into  print  ? 

EDITOR.  But  I  must  make  a  statement  in  justice  to  my 
readers,  in  justice  to  my  followers,  in  justice  to  those  who 
are  defending  my  name  and  who  are  helpless  unless  I  give 
them  a  weapon. 

ATTORNEY  II.     (Shakes  his  head.) 

ATTORNEY  I.  (Thinks  for  a  moment,  then  laboriously 
writes  out  a  statement.  He  writes  for  several  minutes. 
The  Editor  watches  him  with  pleased  expectation.  Turn- 
ing to  Attorney  II,  he  hisses.)  You  see 

ATTORNEY  II.     (Looks  grimly  sardonic.) 

ATTORNEY  I.  (Finishes  the  statement.  He  hands  it  to 
the  Editor.  It  does  not  sizzle.) 

EDITOR.  (Reads  it  with  a  long  face.)  Well,  it  is  not 
exactly  a  42-centimeter,  but  it  is  better  than  nothing.  May 
I  release  it  at  once  ? 

ATTORNEY  II.  (Throws  up  his  hands  in  horror.)  Such 
a  step  would  be  extremely  injudicious.  It  is  wise  to  let 
these  attacks  die  out.  The  public  will  take  them  for  their 
true  value  in  time.  Your  friends  are  discounting  them 
even  now.  Having  followed  the  lies  and  misrepresenta- 
tions in  the  newspapers  in  the  last  few  years,  they  will 
treat  the  slurs  upon  you  with  the  contempt  they  deserve. 
If  not,  they  are  not  worth  being  called  your  friends. 


34  ROOSEVELT 

EDITOR.  (Looks  imploringly  at  Attorney  I.)  But  I 
must  have  my  say.  I  am  a  fighter.  I  cannot  quit. 

ATTORNEY  I.  I  am  afraid  I  agree  with  my  colleague. 
I  cannot  permit  you  to  make  a  statement.  Stay  in  your 
bombproof.  This  is  not  the  advice  you  want  from  an 
expensive  lawyer,  but  it  is  the  best  advice  I  can  give  you. 

ATTORNEY  II.     (Nods  approvingly.) 

EDITOR.     (Throws  up  his  hands  in  despair.) 

Curtain  falls. 

A  VOICE  FROM  THE  AUDIENCE.  What  have  you  to  say 
for  yourself? 

EDITOR.     On  advice  of  counsel,  I  decline  to  answer. 

VOICE.     What  do  you  think  of  it  all? 

EDITOR.     On  advice  of  counsel,  I  refuse  to  think. 

The  lights  go  out.   Total  darkness  envelopes  the  theatre. 

DAY  after  day,  throughout  this  period,  I  was  lam- 
basted in  the  press  as  an  arch  conspirator.  Yet,  the 
most  cursory  examination  of  my  publication  would  have 
revealed  that,  months  before  the  break,  I  supported  the 
enlightened  policies  of  President  Wilson.  Mr.  Wilson's 
speech  of  January  22,  1917,  seemed  to  me  a  new  Sermon 
on  the  Mount.  I  advocated  his  Fourteen  Theses.  In 
fact,  Mr.  Roosevelt,  in  a  signed  statement  issued 
shortly  before  his  death,  insisted  that,  outside  of  my- 
self and  Mr.  Hearst,  the  President's  program  had  no 


ROOSEVELT  35 

supporters.  This  was,  of  course,  untrue,  but  it  con- 
firms my  assertion.  I  frequently  championed  Mr. 
Wilson's  inspired  doctrines  even  after  exigencies  of 
statecraft  compelled  him  to  abandon  them.  I  stood  up 
for  Woodrow  Wilson — even  against  Woodrow  Wilson. 

Nevertheless,  the  campaign  against  me  continued 
merrily.  Journalistic  strumpets  were  hired  to  "expose'* 
and  denounce  me.  The  Vigilantes,  a  band  of  literary 
war  profiteers,  inspired  chiefly  by  hatred  of  me,  issued 
almost  daily  bulls  and  bulletins  against  me.  Even 
the  poets  were  drawn  into  the  conspiracy.  In  de- 
fiance of  its  own  by-laws,  the  executive  committee  of 
the  Poetry  Society  of  America,  which  owes  its  origin 
to  me,  struck  my  name  from  its  roll,  without  con- 
sulting the  members  and  without  permitting  me  to 
appear  in  my  own  defence.  The  protest  of  Edgar  Lee 
Masters,  Nathan  Haskell  Dole,  William  Ellery  Leon- 
ard, Conrad  Aiken,  Witter  Bynner,  Padraic  Colum, 
Shaemas  O'Sheel,  Jane  Burr,  B.  Russell  Herts,  Rose 
Pastor  Stokes,  William  Marion  Reedy,  and  Harriet 
Monroe  (to  name  only  a  few  of  my  champions),  were 
unavailing. 

My  expulsion  from  the  Authors'  League  preceded 
the  action  of  the  Poetry  Society.  In  both  cases  those 
heroic  stay-at-homes,  the  Vigilantes,  were  the  gatherers 
of  the  grapes  of  wrath.  Many  one-time  friends  were 
either  paralyzed  by  fear  or  pliant  tools  in  the  hands 


36  ROOSEVELT 

of  the  Invisible  Government.  Now  that  the  peril  is 
past,  many  of  the  rats  are  scurrying  back.  This,  how- 
ever, is  a  tribute,  not  to  their  loyalty,  but  to  the  sea- 
worthiness of  the  vessel.  My  experience  in  this  respect 
differs  in  no  whit  from  that  of  other  advocates  of 
unpopular  causes.  In  the  great  Ark  of  human  life 
there  is  room  for  all  creatures.  Even  rats  have  their 
place  in  the  universe.  We  shall  not  bar  them  from  our 
gang-planks,  but  we  shall  know  them  for  what  they  are. 
Many  erstwhile  admirers  volunteered  to  rend  me 
when  the  tide  seemed  to  be  turning  against  me.  Charles 
Hanson  Towne,  who  had  hailed  my  poetry,  Gertrude 
Atherton,  who  had  saluted  my  prose,  vociferously  de- 
manded my  literary  annihilation.  I  can  understand  the 
psychology  of  those  who,  under  the  influence  of  rabid 
racial  instincts,  lashed  into  fury  by  a  desire  for  noto- 
riety, experienced  an  infantile  regression  to  barbarism. 
It  is  less  easy  to  forgive  Americans  of  German  blood 
who  denounced  their  fellow  citizens  in  order  to  demon- 
strate their  own  loyalty. 

A  CERTAIN  Hermann  (with  two  ns)  Hagedorn, 
like  myself,  the  son  of  a  German  father,  was  more 
royalist  than  Lord  Northcliffe  in  his  devotion  to 
England.  Mr.  Hagedorn's  most  distinguished  contribu- 
tion to  war  literature  is  his  "Portrait  of  a  Rat"  which, 
if  I  may  believe  certain  anonymous  communications, 
was  intended  to  immortalize  me. 


ROOSEVELT  37 

PORTRAIT  OF  A  RAT 

A  little  greasy,  not  quite  clean, 
Conceited,  snobbish,  vain,  obscene, 
Like  flying  poison  are  his  smiles, 
And  zvhat  he  touches,  he  defiles. 
A  Poet,  knowing  Love  and  Art, 
He  makes  a  brothel  of  his  heart; 
A  builder,  gifted  to  build  high, ' 
He  dreams  in  filth  and  builds  a  sty 
To  haggle  in  with  foolish  kings 
Over  the  price  of  wit  and  zvings. 
And  when  his  country  calls  her  men 
With  gun  and  sword,  with  brush  and  pen, 
He  smirks  and  quotes  the  Crucified, 
And  jabs  his  pen-knife  in  her  side. 

Dubious  as  I  am  of  the  soundness  of  Mr.  Hagedorn's 
devotion  to  Jeffersonian  principles,  I  am  certain  that  it 
is  superior  to  his  animal  lore.  The  most  pronounced 
characteristic  of  the  amiable  rodent  in  question  is  its 
eagerness,  noted  above,  to  desert  a  sinking  ship.  Mr. 
Hagedorn's  error  may  be  explicable  on  the  basis  of 
Freud's/  discovery  that  man  frequently  attributes  to 
others  the  fatal  weakness  that  makes  his  own  heart  a 
hell.  I  may  be  guilty  of  many  frailties,  but  it  is  not 
my  habit  to  abandon  my  post  at  the  wheel  at  the  ap- 
proach of  an  iceberg  or  a  torpedo.  I  steered  my  maga- 


38  ROOSEVELT 

zine  straight  through  the  path  of  the  storm  without 
throwing  overboard  my  convictions.  Had  I  been  ready 
to  recant,  my  enemies  would  have  built  for  me  bridges 
of  gold.  I  refuse  to  take  a  blow  lying  down,  even  if 
the  odds  and  the  galleries  are  stacked  against  me. 
Knowing  something  of  mental  Jiu-jitsu,  my  reply  to 
Mr.  Hagedorn  assumed  the  form  of  another  contribu- 
tion to  zoology. 


PORTRAIT   OF  A  JACKAL 

For  love  of  ease  he  plays  the  knave; 
He  spits  upon  his  father's  grave. 
Yea,  for  his  masters'  sport  his  tongue 
Befouls  the  race  from  which  he  sprung — 
While  eager,  oily,  smooth  and  kempt, 
He  eats  the  crumbs  of  their  contempt. 
A  beggar,  lacking  love  and  art, 
He  sells  his  malice  on  the  mart. 
He  casts  a  eunuch's  jaundiced  eyes 
Upon  the  Prophet's  Paradise, 
And  when  his  country  calls  for  men, 
Gives,  all  he  can,  a — fountain  pen. 
His  brave  words  hide  a  slacker's  heart, 
Informer,  sneak,  he  chose  his  part, 
A  Jackal,  ever  on  the  run, 
Save  when  the  odds  are  ten  to  one! 


ROOSEVELT  39 

MAY  I  not  add  that  this  is  not  a  portrait  of  Mr. 
Hagedorn.     He  is  not  important  enough  for  me 
to  waste  a  stroke  of  my  brush.    I  merely  intend  to  de- 
pict a  type.     Let  him  whom  it  fits,  put  this  cap  on  his 
head. 

Some  Americans  of  German  descent,  notably  a  so- 
ciety woman  who  frequently  bursts  into  print,  attempt 
to  camouflage  their  descent,  by  vicious  attacks  on  Ger- 
man music  and  German  art.  They  would  deny  the 
Holy  Ghost  if  He  were  to  approach  them  in  German 
garb  or  with  a  Teutonic  accent.  For  such  as  these, 
the  course  of  duty  is  plain.  They  should  emulate  the 
Samurai  who  disembowel  themselves  in  order  to  ex- 
press the  intensity  of  their  convictions.  Before  long 
Fritz  Kreisler,  who  refused  to  play  for  an  audience  that 
dubbed  his  countrymen  "Huns,"  will  make  the  violin 
sob  and  sing  again.  Wagner,  returning  from  exile, 
will  smite  us  with  tonal  tornadoes.  Richard  Strauss, 
once  more,  will  flagellate  and  delight  our  ears.  When 
these  things  come  to  pass,  the  men  and  women  who 
blush  for  the  race  of  their  fathers  should  seize  the  occa- 
sion for  an  emphatic  demonstration  in  the  fearless 
Japanese  fashion.  What  an  appealing  spectacle !  What 
headlines!  If  the  whole  tribe  were  to  commit  hari-kiri 
in  the  Opera  House  to  the  strains  of  "Lohengrin"  as  a 
protest  against  both  German  music  and  their  own 
German  blood. 


40  ROOSEVELT 

Who  shall  sound  the  perplexities  of  human  nature? 
A  variety  of  motives,  not  all  ignoble,  actuated  the  war- 
fare against  me.  All  my  antagonists,  however,  seemed 
to  prefer  the  poison  pen  to  poison  gas.  There  was 
perhaps  in  the  psyche  of  some  of  my  foes  an  under- 
current of  jealousy,  because  I  occupied  no  little  space 
in  the  newspapers,  and  because  my  literary  labors 
had  not  been  unrewarded  materially.  These  motives, 
seizing  upon  the  unconscious,  prepared  the  soil  for  the 
seed  of  intrigue.  Stimulated  by  war  psychosis,  the 
basest  incentives  donned  the  garb  of  patriotism.  I  do 
not  question  the  sincerity  of  my  foes.  I  merely  analyze 
them  with  a  knowledge  gained  from  the  study  of 
Freud. 

ONE  dear  friend  whose  absence  in  those  days  made 
me  catch  my  breath  with  pain  was  Hugo  Muen- 
sterberg.  Intellectually  and  morally  he  was  a  pillar  of 
strength.  He  died  a  martyr  to  his  convictions.  Even  his 
powerful  constitution  was  unable  to  withstand  the  con- 
stant strain  of  public  assault  and  private  persecution.  He 
could  give  and  take  a  blow,  but  the  betrayal  of  men 
whose  friendship  he  had  treasured  wounded  him  deeply. 
For  all  his  worldly  wisdom,  he  had  the  heart  of  a  child. 
We  who  knew  him,  knew  how  he  suffered.  The  un- 
speakable outrages  committed  against  him  by  men  who 
were  his  debtors  constitute  one  of  the  darkest  chapters 
in  the  academic  history  of  the  United  States. 


ROOSEVELT  41 

Muensterberg  was  incapable  of  understanding  base- 
ness and  ingratitude,  and  yet,  with  truly  Christian 
spirit,  he  forgave  those  who  traduced  him.  His  last 
word  to  the  world  was  a  message  of  peace  and  good  will 
in  the  Christmas  number  of  Fatherland  of  1916.  I 
wonder  with  what  feelings  of  shame  and  humiliation 
some  of  his  colleagues  at  Harvard  will  remember  his 
prophecy :  "After  the  war  men  will  look  one  another 
in  the  face  with  astonishment.  .  .  .  They  simply  will 
not  believe  that  they  could  misjudge  and  maltreat  their 
friends  so  grossly.  The  subtle  power  of  our  mind  to 
forget  will  become  mankind's  blessing. "  Where  others 
preached  hatred,  Muensterberg  preached  love.  But  he 
made  no  compact  with  wrong.  Sinister  influences  con- 
spired to  silence  him,  but  he  was  the  heir  of  Fichte  and 
Luther.  No  power  on  earth  could  make  him  afraid. 

A  German  to  the  last  he,  nevertheless,  understood 
America  better  than  many  of  those  whose  ancestors 
constituted  the  dubious  crew  of  Britain's  younger  sons 
in  Colonial  days.  He  had  become  almost  a  national 
institution.  He  could  always  make  himself  heard  when 
the  voices  of  lesser  men  were  drowned  in  the  tumult. 
His  books  on  America  are  the  most  profound  inter- 
pretation of  American  life.  He  was  equally  skillful  in 
interpreting  German  ideas  and  ideals  to  the  people  of 
the  United  States.  It  was  perhaps  fortunate  that  he 
escaped  the  tragedy  of  seeing  his  life-work  go  up  in 
the  smoke  of  the  world  conflagration.  The  tortures  to 


42  ROOSEVELT 

which  he  was  subjected  by  his  colleagues,  even  before 
our  official  entrance  into  the  war,  the  little  meannesses 
of  which  only  the  professorial  mind  is  capable,  defy 
recital.  The  war  would  have  been  his  crucifixion.  His 
students  loved  him.  But  the  Faculty  was  mediaeval  in 
its  intolerance.  Every  day  drove  a  new  nail  into  his 
heart. 

The  following  verses,  written  immediately  after 
Hugo  Muensterberg's  funeral,  cannot  express  the 
depths  of  my  feeling  for  him.  They  are  a  slight  tribute 
to  the  great  man  whose  genius  for  philosophy  was 
equalled  only  by  his  genius  for  friendship. 

HUGO    MUENSTERBERG 
Because  he  loved  his  country  he  lies  slain, 

Tracked  like  a  lion,  for  the  hounds  to  rend. 

New  England,  gloat  above  my  murdered  friend — 
Stopped  is  the  engine  of  a  mighty  brain! 
Blood  of  his  heart  shall  leave  too  dark  a  stain 

On  Harvard's  crimson  for  the  years  to  blend. 

Smooth-tongued  assassins,  mumbling  as  ye  bend 
Above  his  wounds,  hush!    He  may  bleed  again. 

Marking  afar  from  tender  olive  tree 

The  milk-white  dove,  on  the  blood-sickened  sea 

He  cast  the  bread  whereby  the  soul  shall  live. 
In  ambush  slain,  he  met  a  soldier's  fate, 
And,  like  a  strong  man,  fighting  knezv  not  hate. 

He  has  forgiven.    But  can  we  forgive? 


ROOSEVELT  43 

EVERY  snub,  every  averted  head,  was  a  dagger 
thrust  to  Muensterberg.  He  found  excuses  for  his 
detractors,  but  he  lacked  the  resiliency  to  retort  with  a 
smile.  My  temperament  is  more  sanguine.  Abuse  rolls 
off  the  wings  of  my  Pegasus,  like  water  from  the  plum- 
age of  that  lowly  fowl,  the  duck.  Moreover,  while 
poets  can  be  malicious,  they  cannot  hope  to  surpass  the 
vindictiveness  of  professors.  Ostracism  killed  Muen- 
sterberg. I  did  not  take  my  expulsions  tragically.  I 
shall  practice  poetry  even  without  a  license.  I  shall  fol- 
low the  profession  of  letters  even  if  I  am  outlawed  by 
the  Authors'  League.  I  am  consoled  by  the  fact  that 
our  greatest  American  poets,  Edgar  Allan  Poe  and  Walt 
Whitman,  were  not  members  of  the  literary  coteries  of 
their  day.  I  feel  sure  that  the  Authors'  League  would 
seriously  object  to  Walt  Whitman.  His  bust  in  the 
Hall  of  Fame  is  still  conspicuous  solely  by  its  absence. 
Poe,  like  Whitman,  was  hounded  all  his  life.  Even 
after  his  death  it  took  a  long  struggle  before  he  was 
admitted  to  the  Hall  of  Fame,  although  the  name  of 
Edgar  Allan  Poe  is  synonymous  with  American  Poetry. 
The  final  acceptance  of  Poe  aroused  the  ire  of 
Father  Tabb.  Burning  indignation  dictated  his  death- 
less lines : 

Into  your  charnel  house  of  fame 
Only  the  dead  shall  go, 

But  write  not  there  the  living  name 
Of  Edgar  Allan  Poe. 


44  ROOSEVELT 

If  Mr.  H.  L.  Mencken's  suggestion  that  the  name  of 
the  Poe  family  is  derived  from  the  German  Pfau, 
should  be  authenticated,  no  doubt  the  Authors'  League 
of  America  would  clamor  for  the  immediate  expulsion 
of  the  poet  from  the  chaste  seclusion  of  University 
Heights,  on  the  charge  of  Pro-Germanism.  Perhaps  it 
would  be  joined  in  this  attempt  by  the  executive  com- 
mittee of  the  Poetry  Society! 

However  that  may  be,  I  dedicate  to  the  Authors' 
League  of  America  and  divers  literary  societies  the 
following  verses: 

Go,  play  your  Lilliputian  game, 
Ye  lisping  scribes  and  ladies  lyric, 

While  brave  men  die  and  oceans  flame! 
Your  victory  at  best  is  Pyrrhic; 

The  Future  knows  your  Scroll  of  Fame 

But  for  the  expurgated  name 
Of  George  Sylvester  Viereck. 

Poe,  Whitman  and  Mark  Twain  suffered  because  of 
their  rugged  Americanism.  Mark  Twain,  in  spite  of 
his  popularity,  was  not  permitted  to  express  what  he 
felt  most  deeply.  He  reserved  his  scorn  for  posthu- 
mous publication  and  for  his  correspondence.  I  am  pre- 
pared to  be  an  outcast  in  such  noble  company.  But, 
like  Poe  and  Whitman,  I  shall  not  wait  until  I  am  dead 


ROOSEVELT  45 

before  I  voice  my  convictions.  Even  that  smug  heretic, 
Louis  Untermeyer,  who  combines  an  erratic  critical  gift 
with  unerring  commercial  instincts,  in  a  book  alleged 
to  interpret  the  New  Spirit  in  American  literature, 
shrewdly  contents  himself  with  a  sneering  reference 
to  me.  I  shall  survive,  even  if  I  am  ignored  in  anthol- 
ogies and  if  little  professors  teach  their  scholars  that, 
with  the  possible  exception  of  Theodore  Dreiser's,  mine 
is  "the  vulgarest  voice  yet  heard  in  American  litera- 
ture."* 


IT  may  be  that  the  war  psychosis  will  not  endure  for- 
ever, that  even  our  Rip  Van  Winkles,  as  Shaw  has 
aptly  termed  the  editors  of  America,  may  discover,  in 
the  course  of  a  decade  or  two,  that  the  war  is  over. 
It  may  be  that  the  true  poets  of  America  will  drive 
from  the  temple  those  who  betray  the  Muse  into  the 
hands  of  the  moneylenders.  It  may  be  that  the  mon- 
strous grasp  that  strangles  all  those  who,  while  render- 
ing homage  to  Shakespeare  and  to  Swinburne,  refuse 
to  rise  when  the  band  plays  "God  Save  the  King,"  will 
be  pried  loose  by  a  miracle ! 

Fortunately,  a  writer  in  the  English  tongue  (and 
I  use  more  pens  than  one)  is  not  confined  to  one  con- 
tinent. Life's  paradoxes  are  more  startling  than  Oscar 
Wilde's.  And,  paradoxically  enough,  war- racked 

*  "On  Contemporary  Literature,"  by  Stuart  P.  Sherman. 


-If,  .7   i  '   ,  >    s    /     I      /     /     / 

Europe  U  more  MM   m  Us  attitude  towards  mr  than  mv 

colleagues.    Perhaps  her  mtdUvtuals  have  a 
respect  for  the  ait  ot  letters.    Perhaps  they  are 

Wavol  l>x    tin-  pMi-holoj-)    oi   tin-  moh 
I  MKli-.hinni    Ml    Irttrts    mrrt    mv    .u  i;nmrnts    \\ithout 
Jrrmnu;    U    iicvrsviiv    to   pioMiihr   inv    vrisf       \Vhru    1 
Cftlled   Enfb.nl    "thr    Snprnl    ot    llir    Sra/'    the   jovial 
heart    ,>l    uilhrit    K     (lirstnton    sliook    \vilh    llonu-iu- 

laughter.    ll>->  hioiiu-i.  Cecil  \\ii«>,  unhkr  ^\\   \'igi- 

lantet,  awlfil    Ins    lov.iltv    with    Ins    ],lr.    ,  h.illctlged  IW 

to  a  debau-     \\  v-  nu-i  in  luMirsi  combat,  and  after  it 
was  over  we  shook  hands  ami  Junk  large  jugs  of  ale 

.u  llir  tap  loom  ol   thr   Piuuv  iicoi^r 

Ki.irl  :!1    i-oiiirsM-s      \\ilh    Ins    ton^nc    in    hb 

cheek  m  the  "War  for  thr  World,"  that  mv  Fa^*^ 

kmt  W1S  Ol^e   o!    tlir    tlnn-s    tliat    krpt    him    pio  Mix  . 

l>ttt  hr  ilors  not.  ttecause  of  poliiuMl  ^irtcrences.  abuse 
my  lyrics,    H,  d.  \\vil*  take^  me  iniKiiv  to  task  nou 

an,!     thru,     xvitltont     ilrnuMiliiu;     inv     Moihlr    llrinunu- 
hraJ    on    a    silvri    plattri        Aiu!    Horn    Kianor.    leaner 

\\intr  i>\   the  war,  Hrnii  lUilmsse  sends  me  a 

oi  appreciation! 
There  is  a  certain  poetic  justice  ana  ony  in 

the  f act  that  the  countries  I  attacked  so  bittniv  are 
more  srncrottl  MI   |«d|to|  m\    pomt  ot   vu-\v  than  nu 
v>xvn    v\nnHi  \tnrn        l^ut.    hoKP       I    nr\  n    attackrvl    thr 
France  of  Ifcaterlinok  ,-nul  Ivirhusse.  of  Verla 
ViUon,    I  opposed  French  Imperialism,    I  also 


RO  OSE  V  ELT  47 

posed  British  Imperialism.  German  Imperialism  ap- 
pealed to  me  no  more  than  British  Imperialism  or 
French  Imperialism.  I  was  fascinated  by  the  romantic 
figure  of  William  II.  I  glorified  him,  but  only  as  the 
symbol  of  a  nation  embattled. 

I  am  not  a  monarchist.  How  could  I  be?  Insurgency 
is  bred  in  my  bone.  My  father  shared  a  German 
prison  with  Bebel.  Liebknecht  the  elder  and  Auer  were 
daily  visitors  to  our  house.  My  grandfather  on  my 
mother's  side  was  one  of  the  Germans  who  came  to 
seek  freedom  under  the  Stars  and  Stripes  in  1848.  The 
blows  I  struck  for  Germany  were  not  struck  in  defence 
of  her  feudal  system.  Similarly  my  shafts  at  Great 
Britain  were  never  aimed  at  that  "lyric  England,"  to 
which  I  paid  tribute  in  my  first  book  of  poems.  Like- 
wise, I  never  attacked  the  England  of  Chesterton,  of 
Wells,  of  Zangwill,  of  Havelock  Ellis,  of  Hardy  and 
of  Shaw. 


THERE  is  no  contemporary  whom  I  admire  more 
than  the  author  of  "Caesar  and  Cleopatra."  Shaw 
is  not  only  a  matchless  artist,  but  he  is  also,  like  Roose- 
velt, the  mouthpiece  of  an  epoch.    I  treasure  his  judg- 
ment, delivered  December  1,  1918.    He  writes: 

You  backed  the  wrong  horse  in  1914,  but  you 
have  extricated  yourself  very  cleverly;  and  there 
is  plenty  of  common  sense  in  your  present  attitude. 


48  ROOSEVELT 

Of  course,  I  did  not  back  the  wrong  horse.  I  backed 
the  right  horse,  but  the  wrong  jockey.  The  German 
people  will  justify  my  faith.  When  Uncle  Sam  entered 
the  race,  I  backed  both  the  right  horse  and  the  right 
jockey.  I  am  proud  that  Bernard  Shaw  backed  the 
same  horse  and  the  same  jockey,  even  against  Lloyd 
George.  Of  course,  we  must  differentiate  between 
Woodrow  Wilson,  the  politician,  and  Woodrow  Wil- 
son, the  spokesman  of  the  hope  of  the  world.  The  one 
may  fail  us.  He  may  compromise.  He  may  hedge. 
The  other  has  planted  a  star  in  the  firmament  of  man- 
kind that  even  he  himself  cannot  tear  down  from  the 
heavens.  It  is  to  this  star  that  we  have  hitched  our 
wagon.* 

Theodore  Roosevelt,  unfortunately,  resolutely  shut 
his  eyes  to  the  new  vision.  Though  a  son  of  the  New 
World,  he  made  himself  the  mouthpiece  of  Old  World 
Imperialism.  The  very  title  by  which  he  preferred 
to  be  addressed  was  borrowed  from  the  lexicon  of 
militarism.  George  Bernard  Shaw,  who  never  set  foot 
on  American  soil,  speaks  the  language  of  the  New 
World's  Idealism.  The  difference  between  the  two  is 
the  difference  between  the  Hebrew  prophets  and  Jesus. 

Theodore  Roosevelt  clamored  for  my  expulsion  from 
the  Authors'  League.  George  Bernard  Shaw,  patriotic 
Englishman  though  he  be,  refused  to  betray  the  allegi- 

*  This  was  written  several  months  before  Mr.  Wilson's  abject 
failure  in  Paris. 


A  MESSAGE  FROM  GEORGE  BERNARD  SHAW 


10  ADELfHI  TERRACE  W.C.2. 


10^  «r«^. 


50  ROOSEVELT 

ance  he  owes  to  the  profession  of  letters.    His  message 
of  January  19,  1919,  needs  no  comment: 

If  the  Authors'  League  or  the  Poetry  Society  or 
any  other  organization  expels  a  member  because  of 
his  political  opinions,  it  thereby  constitutes  itself 
a  political  body  and  violates  whatever  literary 
charter  it  may  have.  Literature,  art  and  science 
are  free  of  frontiers;  and  those  who  exploit  them 
politically  are  traitors  to  the  greatest  republic  in 
the  world:  the  Republic  of  Art  and  Science. 

BUT  I  have  wandered  far  from  the  subject  of 
my  discussion.  Enter  Theodore  Roosevelt,  to 
whom  I  herewith  yield  his  accustomed  place,  the  center 
of  the  stage.  I  wish,  with  no  undue  humility,  that  I  could 
eliminate  the  first  person  singular  from  my  study,  but 
these  pages  owe  whatever  value  they  may  possess  to 
my  personal  relations  with  Colonel  Roosevelt.  The 
psycho-analyst,  however  objective  he  may  desire  to  be, 
cannot  obliterate  himself.  He  must  register  his  re- 
actions. His  soul  is  his  sounding  board.  He  cannot 
illuminate  his  subject  without  revealing  himself.  I  have 
tried  to  be  honest  both  with  myself  and  with  others. 
Have  I  succeeded?  God  only  knows — and  Freud. 

GEORGE  SYLVESTER  VIERECK. 
New  York,  1919. 


The  Bi-polarity  of  Theodore  Roosevelt 


I. 

SCAR  WILDE  says  somewhere:  "'Know 
thyself  was  written  over  the  portals  of  the 
Old  World.  'Be  thyself  is  written  over  the 
portals  of  the  New."  But  it  is  impossible 
for  man  to  know  himself  or  to  be  himself 
without  Psychoanalysis.  Psychoanalysis  did  not  exist  be- 
fore Freud.  Freud  gave  us  the  key  to  the  soul.  He 
teaches  us  how  to  know  and  how  to  be  ourselves.  But 
no  one  who  truly  knows  himself  can  possibly  wish  to  be 
himself.  Above  the  portal  of  the  Future,  Psychoanalysis 
writes  the  new  legend:  "Sublimate  thyself.'* 

It  may  be  that  those  who  live  by  psychoanalysis  shall 
perish  by  psychoanalysis.  Psychoanalysis  robs  hate  of  its 
sting.  Perhaps  it  also  deprives  love  of  its  halo.  By  pene- 
trating into  the  innermost  tunnels,  the  deepest  galleries  of 
the  mind,  until  it  reaches  the  very  root  of  Self,  it  may  de- 
stroy those  emotions  and  processes  which  cannot  exist  save 
in  the  haze  of  illusion.  Under  the  scalpel  of  analysis, 
maybe,  art  withers  and  affection  dies.  It  cannot  give  us  the 
love  that  passes  all  understanding  but  it  can  give  the  under- 
standing that  passes  all  love. 


54  ROOSEVELT 

Psychoanalysis  teaches  us  that  Christ's  command  to  love 
our  enemies  is  no  paradox  because  love  and  hate  are  inter- 
changeable terms.  "Odi  et  Amo,"  Catullus  writes  to  his 
inamorata.  The  heart,  like  Janus,  has  two  faces.  "Each 
man  kills  the  thing  he  loves,"  says  "The  Ballad  of  Reading 
Gaol."  "Each  man  loves  the  thing  he  kills,"  adds  the 
shrewd  psychoanalyst.  Even  as  a  boy  I  must  have  had 
some  intimation  of  this  great  antinomy.  "For  the  mean- 
ing of  love,  at  the  last,  is  hate,"  exclaims  the  lover  in  one 
of  my  earliest  poems.  For  this  duality  of  affection,  this 
contradictory  aspect  of  human  relationship,  this  bi-polarity 
of  the  soul,  this  plus  and  minus  of  emotion,  one  of  Freud's 
first  associates,  Bleuler,  has  coined  the  name  of  Ambiva- 
lence. 

Ambivalence  is  difficult  to  define.  Ambivalent  impulses, 
Freud  says  somewhere  in  "Totem  and  Taboo,"  represent 
simultaneously  the  wish  and  the  counter-wish.  "Am- 
bivalence," he  tells  us,  "is  the  sway  of  coexisting  contrary 
tendencies."  The  exaggerated  regard,  the  very  tenderness 
which  we  feel  for  the  objects  of  our  hero  worship  or  our 
affection  are  accompanied  by  "a  contrary  but  unconscious 
stream  of  hostility  wherever  the  typical  case  of  an  am- 
bivalent affective  attitude  is  realized.  The  hostility  is  then 
submerged  by  an  excessive  increase  of  tenderness  which  is 
expressed  as  anxiety  and  becomes  compulsive  because 
otherwise  it  would  not  suffice  for  its  task  of  keeping  the 
unconscious  opposition  in  a  state  of  repression.  .  .  .  Ap- 
plied to  the  treatment  of  privileged  persons,  this  theory 


ROOSEVELT  55 

would  reveal  that  their  veneration,  their  very  deification,  is 
opposed  in  the  unconscious  by  an  intense  hostile  tendency. 
.  .  .  The  taboo  of  the  dead,"  Freud  states  somewhere 
else,  "originates  from  the  conscious  grief  and  the  uncon- 
scious satisfaction  at  death." 

Shaw  says  that  our  grief  over  the  death  of  a  friend  or 
a  near  relative  is  mingled  with  a  certain  feeling  of  satisfac- 
tion at  "being  finally  done  with  him."  Freud,  expressing 
himself  more  scientifically,  contends  (in  "Reflections  on 
War  and  Death")  that  "primitive  man,  grieving  at  the 
death  of  a  friend,  discovered  in  his  pain  that  he,  too,  could 
die,  an  admission  against  which  his  whole  being  must  have 
revolted,  for  every  one  of  these  loved  ones  was  part  of  his 
own  beloved  self.  On  the  other  hand,  again,  every  such 
death  was  satisfactory  to  him,  for  there  was  also  some- 
thing foreign  in  each  of  these  persons.  The  law  of  emo- 
tional ambivalence,  which  to-day  still  governs  our  emo- 
tional relations  to  those  whom  we  love,  certainly  obtained 
far  more  widely  in  primitive  times.  The  beloved  dead  had 
nevertheless  roused  some  hostile  feelings  in  primitive  man 
because  they  had  been  both  friends  and  enemies.  .  .  . 
Except  in  a  few  instances,  even  the  tenderest  and  closest 
love  relations,"  Freud  insists,  "contain  a  bit  of  hostility 
which  can  arouse  an  unconscious  death-wish." 

Every  popular  hero  is  both  hated  and  loved  by  his  fol- 
lowers. Hence  the  startling  somersaults  of  popular  senti- 
ment. The  idol,  almost  overnight,  by  some  subtle  and 
sudden  accretion  to  the  subconscious  forces  of  opposition, 


56  ROOSEVELT 

becomes  an  object  of  universal  contumely.  Aristides  is 
banished  because  he  is  just.  The  lion  of  to-day  is  the 
jackal  of  to-morrow.  Judgment  can  reverse  itself  with 
the  rapidity  of  lightning,  because  underneath  the  adoration 
there  is  a  strong  current  of  hostility  and  resentment.  No 
man  has  experienced  this  sudden  reversal  more  frequently 
than  Theodore  Roosevelt.  He  alternately  enthralled  and 
utterly  estranged  public  opinion.  His  friends  of  to-day 
were  his  enemies  of  to-morrow.  The  mortal  foe  became 
the  dearest  friend.  Both  friend  and  foe  grieve  his  loss. 
The  world  seems  empty  without  him.  I  am  convinced 
that  Brother  Barnes  and  Brother  Penrose  mourn  him 
even  more  profoundly  than  Brother  Perkins  and  Brother 
Pinchot.  Both  Taft  and  Wilson  sorrowed  at  his  bier.  Not 
merely  because  they  owed  to  him  both  the  Presidency  and 
the  most  anxious  hours  of  their  lives,  but  because  of  some- 
thing in  the  man  himself  that  deeply  and  powerfully  at- 
tracted those  whom  he  most  repelled  and,  ambivalently,  re- 
pelled those  who  loved  him  best. 

Roosevelt  himself  is  a  typical  example  of  bi-polarity. 
He  was  at  once  the  Progressive  and  the  Reactionary.  He 
was  Sophist  and  Rough  Rider,  Simple  Simon  and  Machi- 
avelli,  rolled  into  one.  He  was  more  English  than  George 
V.,  more  imperialistic  than  the  London  Times;  yet  he 
hated  the  English  from  the  depth  of  his  heart,  he  despised 
them,  and,  to  use  his  own  phrase,  he  patronized  them.  He 
was  at  once  the  faithful  Patroclus  and  the  treacherous 
Apache.  He  loved  the  Germans  and  bitterly  denounced 


ROOSEVELT  57 

them.  His  attitude  toward  Wilhelm  II.  was  equally  am- 
bivalent. He  admired  the  Hohenzollern,  yet  had  no  kind 
word  for  him.  The  two  men  were  strangely  alike  in  some 
respects.  For  the  Kaiser  is  a  similar  bundle  of  contradic- 
tions. Wilhelm,  as  I  explained  in  my  "Confessions  of  a 
Barbarian"  (written  ten  years  ago),  is  both  rationalist  and 
mystic,  Anglophile  and  Anglophobe.  The  Middle  Ages 
and  the  Twentieth  Century  join  in  the  unstable  composition 
of  his  character.  Yet,  as  I  pointed  out,  the  Kaiser  is  no 
hypocrite.  We  must  simply  accept  him  as  two  personali- 
ties. Roosevelt,  contradictory  as  this  may  seem  in  the  light 
of  his  inconsistencies,  was  equally  incapable  of  hypocrisy. 
We  cannot  explain  him  without  the  theory  of  ambivalence. 


The  Ambivalent  Element  in  My  Relations 
with  Roosevelt 


II. 


|WJY  own  relations  with  Theodore  Roosevelt  were  dis- 
tinctly ambivalent.  I  hated  him  and  I  loved  him,  as 
Catullus  did  his  mistress.  His  feelings  towards  me  must 
have  been  equally  contradictory.  He  was  both  my  generous 
friend  and  my  relentless  foe.  If  I  attacked  him  bitterly,  the 
arrow  intended  for  him  entered  my  own  heart.  Praising 
him,  I  spoke  in  strident  accents,  in  order  to  drown  the 
secret  misgivings,  the  latent  hostility,  the  hidden  dis- 
trust in  my  bosom.  The  Progressives  who  deified  him 
were  lacerated  by  the  self-same  conflict.  Suspicion  and 
adoration  alternately  dominated  their  attitude.  To  Wall 
Street  he  was  both  Devil  and  Savior.  He  was  the  man 
who  wrote  to  My  Dear  Mr.  Harriman:  "You  and  I  are 
practical  men."  He  was  also  the  man  who  exalted  "the 
spontaneous  judgment  of  the  people"  above  "the  deliberate 
judgment  of  the  bosses."  He  was  the  Nemesis  of  malefac- 
tors of  great  wealth  and  he  made  a  present  of  the  Tennes- 
see Coal  and  Iron  Co.  to  J.  Pierpont  Morgan ! 

Preaching  neutrality  in  the  beginning  of  the  war,  even 
justifying  the  invasion  of  Belgium,  he  was  the  leader  of 
those  who  made  it  impossible  for  Mr.  Wilson  to  "keep  us 
out  of  war."  Blind  to  his  own  inconsistency,  he  assailed 


62  ROOSEVELT 

Germany  for  her  breach  of  international  ethics;  he  de- 
nounced Mr.  Wilson's  "high-handedness"  in  Central  Amer- 
ica: but  he  never  apologized  for  his  own  seizure  of 
Panama.  Like  Wilhelm  II.,  he  was  the  most  impulsive  of 
statesmen,  yet,  again  like  Wilhelm  II.,  the  most  calculating 
student  of  public  psychology.  He  was  the  most  un- 
scrupulous, the  most  flagrantly  inconsistent,  the  most 
shamelessly  selfish  of  politicians;  yet  his  confession  of 
faith  made  in  Carnegie  Hall  in  March,  1912,  rings  true. 

"The  leader,  for  the  time  being,  whoever  he  may  be,  is  but 
an  instrument,  to  be  used  until  broken  and  then  to  be  cast 
aside,  and  if  he  is  worth  his  salt  he  will  care  no  more  when 
he  is  broken  than  a  soldier  cares  when  he  is  sent  where  his 
life  is  forfeit  in  order  that  the  victory  may  be  won.  In  the 
long  fight  for  righteousness  the  watchword  for  all  of  us  is 
spend  and  be  spent.  It  is  of  little  matter  whether  any  one 
man  fails  or  succeeds,  but  the  cause  shall  not  fail,  for  it  is 
the  cause  of  mankind.  We,  here  in  America,  hold  in  our 
hands  the  hope  of  the  world,  the  fate  of  the  coming  years; 
and  shame  and  disgrace  will  be  ours  if  in  our  eyes  the  light  of 
high  resolve  is  dimmed,  if  we  trail  in  the  dust  the  golden 
hopes  of  men." 

His  hands  shook  with  emotion  as  he  delivered  this 
solemn  creed.  Dramatically  leaf  after  leaf  fluttered  from 
his  hand.  Seated  behind  him  on  the  platform,  I  was  en- 
thralled. Yet  the  voice  that  pronounced  these  ringing 
sentences  had  an  almost  feminine  treble.  The  most  mas- 
culine man  in  America,  the  prophet  of  the  strenuous  life, 


ROOSEVELT  63 

was  distinctly  feminine  in  many  of  his  psychic  character- 
istics. He  was  a  great  and  inspired  orator;  he  was  also 
a  vixen  and  a  scold. 

The  first  phase  in  my  relations  with  Theodore  Roosevelt 
was  one  of  antagonism.  With  the  sophistry  of  eighteen  I 
detested  his  championship  of  the  Simple  Life.  I  was  made 
furious  by  his  attempt  to  throttle  freedom  of  speech  when 
he  started  his  famous  libel  suit  against  the  New  York 
World  at  the  expense  of  the  Government.  It  was  the  first 
introduction  of  the  theory  of  lese  majeste  into  American 
jurisprudence.  I  wrote  a  violently  vindictive  sonnet 
against  him,  so  violent  that  the  New  York  World  refused 
to  print  it.  It  appeared,  I  believe,  in  The  Call. 

THEODORE  ROOSEVELT 

Those  who  bore  Rome's  imperial  crown,  they  say, 
Felt  a  strange  sickness  work  in  brain  and  blood, 
Till  ever  spreading  like  some  monstrous  bud 

Their  arrogance  umbraged  all  the  world.    Yet  they 

Were  ground  to  &ust  and  dynasts  swept  away, 
Whose  grander  madness  rocked  on  ages  stood, 
By  just  men's  anger  rising  like  the  Flood, 

O  boastful  Tyrant  for  a  Little  Day! 

Thou  art  not  strong  backward  to  swing  the  gate 
Of  speech  made  free  through  Milton's  high  renown ! 

Thine  might  have  been  the  enviable  fate 

Of  one  whose  foot  trod  Mammon's  altar  down : 
Heed,  lest — a  braggart  in  a  prophet's  gown — 

The  night  engulf  thee  with  a  nation's  hate! 


64  ROOSEVELT 

My  dislike  for  Roosevelt  (justified  in  this  case — but  justice 
never  regulates  human  relations!)  was  perfectly  natural. 
It  arose,  as  I  explained  to  him  later,  from  a  spirit  of  filial 
opposition,  presumably  implanted  in  my  soul  (to  render 
unto  Freud  that  which  is  Freud's)  by  some  obscure  mani- 
festation of  the  Oedipus  complex. 

My  father  was  one  of  Roosevelt's  staunchest  supporters. 
He  is  the  historian  of  Roosevelt's  school  year  in  Germany ; 
he  made  a  pilgrimage  to  the  house  of  the  good  Dr.  Mink- 
witz  in  Dresden,  where  young  Theodore  spent  many  happy 
days.  He  also  collected  reverently  from  the  maiden  daugh- 
ters of  the  Teuton  educator  characteristic  anecdotes  of  the 
engaging  lad.  My  father  is  the  possessor  of  a  long  letter 
from  Theodore  Roosevelt,  written  during  his  gubernatorial 
campaign,  in  which  he  sings  the  praises  of  his  German 
American  friends,  and  proudly  calls  attention  to  his  Ger- 
man descent.  This  letter  was  resuscitated  many  times  by 
Theodore  Roosevelt.  It  did  duty  in  every  campaign. 


Roosevelt  Intrigues  My  Imagination 


III. 

TN  1909  Roosevelt  intrigued  my  imagination.  I  find 
*  several  references  to  him  in  the  "Confessions  of  a 
Barbarian."  In  Chapter  III  (The  State  Idea),  I  said: 

We  have  compared  ourselves  to  the  Romans.  I,  myself,  have 
endorsed  that  comparison.  But  I  am  afraid  we  flatter  our- 
selves. We  are  undeniably  resourceful  and  mighty.  Our  do- 
minion is  wider  than  Rome's.  We  can  match  the  Appian  Way. 
We  even  have  a  sort  of  Caesar.  That  it  what  the  French  call 
him,  and  not  without  justice.  Caesar  was  Rome.  America, 
through  Europe's  glasses,  is  Roosevelt.  We,  recognizing  the 
real  master  in  his  dual  disguise,  bow  to  Rockefeller  and  Mor- 
gan. On  the  Continent  Rockefeller's  memoirs  met  with  scant 
success.  Roosevelt's  books  went. 

Like  Caesar,  Roosevelt  is  a  historian.  The  future  will  speak 
of  both  as  popular  leaders.  Greek  students  will  perhaps  em- 
ploy the  Greek  equivalent  of  the  term.  Perhaps  every  states- 
man must  be  a  demagogue  and  every  prophet  a  charlatan. 
Theodore,  like  the  great  Julius,  is  intensely  theatrical,  and  in- 
tensely— convulsively — dynamic.  Both  men  believed  in  their 
star.  Both  men,  after  startling  domestic  exploits,  submerged 
themselves  temporarily  in  the  African  jungle.  Roosevelt,  like 
Caesar,  has  hunted  big  game.  But  not  so  big  as  Caesar's.  He 
has  founded  no  kingdom  by  the  Nile;  nor  followed  the  river 
to  its  mystical  sources.  [This  was  written  before  his  expedi- 
tion to  the  "River  of  Doubt."]  And  there  was  no  Cleopatra. 
That  would  take  more  imagination  than  Mr.  Roosevelt  pos- 
sesses. He  has  slain  lions,  instead,  and  penned  laborious  arti- 
cles at  a  dollar  a  word,  for  the  Outlook  and  Scribner's. 


68  ROOSEVELT 

And  there  was  no  Cleopatra.  The  absence  of  the  Cleo- 
patra complex  constituted  my  chief  grievance  against 
Roosevelt.  I  was  a  poet  of  passion.  A  great  man  without 
a  romance  to  his  credit  seemed  to  me  strangely  inhuman. 
My  youth  clamored  for  sex.  In  Roosevelt,  no  doubt,  to 
use  the  Freudian  dialect,  the  sex  impulse  was  either  re- 
pressed or  sublimated. 

David  Jayne  Hill,  then  Ambassador  of  the  United  States 
in  Berlin,  presented  a  copy  of  the  "Confessions  of  a  Bar- 
barian" to  His  Majesty  the  Emperor.  He  also  gave  a  copy 
to  Theodore  Roosevelt,  together  with  a  letter  from  me. 
I  received  a  courteous  reply  from  the  Colonel  in  which  he 
expressed  the  desire  to  meet  me  on  his  return  to  this  coun- 
try. I  think  it  was  at  the  Outlook  office  that  I  first  met 
Theodore  Roosevelt.  I  am  sorry  that  I  made  no  record 
of  the  occasion.  Unlike  Frank  Harris,  I  was  not  born 
with  a  note-book.  When  I  meet  the  great,  I  sometimes 
forget  my  fountain  pen.  This  could  never  happen  to 
Harris.  George  Moore  goes  Harris  one  better.  He  carries 
his  typewriter  or  his  memorandum  pad  into  his  lady's  bed- 
room! Mr.  Roosevelt  was  altogether  fascinating.  He 
told  me  that  he  was  an  admirer  of  my  verse.  (O  praises 
sweeter  than  manna!)  His  daughter  Alice  had  given  him 
a  copy  of  "Nineveh."  The  poem  deeply  impressed  him. 
"I  was  a  pretty  busy  man  in  the  White  House,"  he  said, 
"but  I  have  not  forgotten  that  poem."  (I  was  in  seventh 
heaven.)  "You  make  New  York  out  to  be  rather  wicked," 
he  remarked  with  a  smile,  "but  you  are  right,  it  is  wicked." 


ROOSEVELT  69 

"You,"  I  had  the  presence  of  mind  to  answer,  "as  a  former 
police  commissioner,  are  in  a  position  to  know."  Never- 
theless, I  gasped.  For  while  I  employed  the  language  of 
Isaiah  in  the  poem,  my  intent  was  purely  artistic.  Moral 
indignation  is  not  part  of  my  mental  equipment.  The 
reproach  I  heaped  upon  the  city  was  a  token  of  my  affec- 
tion (and  affectation)  !  To-day  I  would  characterize  my 
attitude  as  "ambivalent." 

NINEVEH 
I. 

Q  NINEVEH,  thy  realm  is  set 
^•^   Upon  a  base  of  rock  and  steel, 
From  where  the  under-rivers  fret 
High  up  to  where  the  planets  reel. 

Clad  in  a  blazing  coat  of  mail, 

Above  the  gables  of  the  town 
Huge  dragons  with  a  monstrous  trail 

Have  pillared  pathways  up  and  down. 

And  in  the  bowels  of  the  deep, 
Where  no  man  sees  the  gladdening  sun, 

All  night  without  the  balm  of  sleep 
The  human  tide  rolls  on  and  on. 

'"THE  Hudson's  mighty  waters  lave 
•*       In  stern  caress  thy  granite  shore, 
And  to  thy  port  the  salt  sea  wave 
Brings  oil  and  wine  and  precious  ore. 

Yet  if  the  ocean  in  its  might 

Should  rise,  confounding  stream  and  bay, 

The  stain  of  one  delirious  night 
Not  all  the  tides  can  wash  away ! 


70  ROOSEVELT 

"PHICK  pours  the  smoke  of  thousand  fires, 
*      Life  throbs  and  beats  relentlessly— 
But  lo,  above  the  stately  spires 
Two  lemans :  Death  and  Leprosy. 

What  fruit  shall  spring  from  such  embrace  ? 

Ah,  even  thou  would'st  quake  to  hear ! 
He  bends  to  kiss  her  loathsome  face, 

She  laughs — and  whispers  in  his  ear. 

Sit  not  too  proudly  on  thy  throne, 
Think  on  thy  sisters,  them  that  fell ; 

Not  all  the  hosts  of  Babylon 
Could  save  her  from  the  jaws  of  hell. 


II. 

T^HROUGH  the  long  alleys  of  the  park 
^      On  noiseless  wheels  and  delicate  springs, 
Glide  painted  women,  fair  and  dark, 
Bedecked  with  silks  and  jewelled  things, 

In  peacock  splendor  goes  the  rout, 
With  shrill,  loud  laughter  of  the  mad — 

Red  lips  to  suck  thy  life-blood  out, 
And  eyes  too  weary  to  be  sad ! 

Their  feet  go  down  to  shameful  death, 
They  flaunt  the  livery  of  their  wrong, 

Their  beauty  is  of  Ashtoreth, 
Her  strength  it  is  that  makes  them  strong. 


BEHOLD  thy  virgin  daughters,  how 
They  know  the  smile  a  wanton  wears; 
And  oh !  on  many  a  boyish  brow 
The  blood-red  brand  of  murder  flares. 


ROOSEVELT  71 

SEE,  through  the  crowded  streets  they  fly, 
Like  doves  before  the  gathering  storm. 
They  cannot  rest,  for  ceaselessly 
In  every  heart  there  dwells  a  worm. 

They  sing  in  mimic  joy,  and  crown 

Their  temples  to  the  flutes  of  sin; 
But  no  sweet  noise  shall  ever  drown 

The  whisper  of  the  worm  within. 


HTHEY  revel  in  the  gilded  line 
•*•       Of  lamplit  halls  to  charm  the  night, 
But  think  you  that  the  crimson  wine 
Can  veil  the  horror  from  their  sight  ? 

Ah,  no — their  staring  eyes  are  led 
To  where  it  lurks  with  hideous  leer; 

Therefore  the  women  flush  so  red, 
And  all  the  men  are  white  with  fear. 


AS  in  a  mansion  vowed  to  lust, 
Where  wantons  with  their  guests  make  free, 
Tis  thus  thou  humblest  in  the  dust 
Thy  queenly  body,  Nineveh! 

Thy  course  is  downward ;  'tis  the  road 

To  sins  that,  even  where  disgrace 
And  shameful  pleasure  walk  abroad, 

Dare  not  unmask  their  shrouded  face! 

Surely  at  last  shall  come  the  day 

When  these  that  dance  so  merrily 
Shall  watch  with  terrible  faces  gray 

Thy  doom  draw  near,  O  Nineveh ! 


72  ROOSEVELT 

III. 

T     TOO,  the  fatal  harvest  gained 

Of  them  that  sow  with  seed  of  fire 
In  passion's  garden— I  have  drained 
The  goblet  of  thy  sick  desire. 

I  from  thy  love  had  bitter  bliss, 
And  ever  in  my  memory  stir 

The  after-savors  of  thy  kiss— 
The  taste  of  aloes  and  of  myrrh. 

And  yet  I  love  thee,  love  unblessed 
The  poison  of  thy  wanton's  art ; 

Though  thou  be  sister  to  the  Pest, 
In  thy  great  hands  I  lay  my  heart ! 

And  when  thy  body,  Titan-strong, 
Writhes  on  its  giant  couch  of  sin, 

Yea,  though  upon  the  trembling  throng 
The  very  vault  of  Heaven  fall  in ; 

And,  though  the  palace  of  thy  feasts 
Sink  crumbling  in  a  fiery  sea— 

I,  like  the  last  of  Baal's  priests, 
Will  share  thy  doom,  O  Nineveh ! 


Roosevelt  the  Lovable 


IV. 

I  N  those  days  my  father  published  Der  Deutsche  Vor- 
kaempfer  (The  German  Pioneer),  a  monthly  devoted 
to  keeping  alive  a  knowledge  of  German  in  the  United 
States.  Nowadays  it  would  be  regarded  as  "German 
Propaganda."  Ponce  de  Leon  sought  the  fountain  of 
youth  in  the  Western  hemisphere.  My  father,  reversing 
the  Spaniard's  steps,  turned  to  the  medicinal  waters  of 
Germany  for  his  rejuvenation.  I  decided  to  continue  the 
Vorkaempfer  under  another  name.  It  was  to  be  published 
as  a  German  edition  of  Current  Literature,  and  was  to  be 
the  intellectual  organ  of  the  "culture  exchange  so  ardently 
fostered  by  the  German  Emperor  and  Mr.  Roosevelt." 
Current  Literature  insisted  upon  certain  financial  guaran- 
tees. I  turned  for  aid  to  Count  Bernstorff  and  Theodore 
Roosevelt.  Mr.  Roosevelt  generously  promised  to  say  a 
good  word  for  me  with  a  number  of  wealthy  German 
Americans,  if  I  would  provide  the  occasion. 

I  arranged  a  luncheon  at  the  National  Arts  Club,  inviting 
Professor  Hugo  Muensterberg ;  the  German  Consul-Gen- 
eral;  and  a  number  of  distinguished  German  Americans. 
Roosevelt  appeared,  ruddy  and  blustering.  He  was  in 
splendid  form.  He  shook  everyone  by  the  hand.  He 
dominated  every  one.  He  held  the  attention  of  all  from 
beginning  to  end,  shouting  across  the  table,  if  necessary, 


76  ROOSEVELT 

to  bring  back  those  who  strayed  from  the  fold.  The  room 
resounded  with  his  vitality.  The  walls  trembled  with  his 
indiscretions.  He  did  not  take  a  cocktail,  but  he  drank 
several  glasses  of  champagne.  Liquor,  however,  did  not 
influence  him.  He  was  in  no  need  of  alcoholic  stimulants. 
He  was  always  drunk  with  his  eloquence,  drunk  with 
exuberance,  drunk  with  the  wine  of  God.  I  never  saw 
a  man  who  could  eat  so  quickly  and  talk  so  quickly  at  the 
same  time.  Yet  he  was  careful  of  his  health.  I  noticed 
that  he  took  saccharine  in  place  of  sugar.  And  he  talked 
as  no  man  ever  talked  before.  Empires,  kingdoms,  world 
policies,  state  secrets  he  whirled  at  his  audience  and 
caught  them  up  again  with  the  dexterity  of  a  juggler. 

To  me  there  was  something  Napoleonic  in  Roosevelt's 
colossal  activity.  I  told  him  so.  He  only  half  relished  the 
compliment.  The  moralist  in  him  condemned  the  Cor- 
sican.  Perhaps  the  egotist  in  him  could  not  forgive  him 
his  fame.  Mr.  Roosevelt  told  us  his  reason  for  sending 
the  fleet  around  the  world,  an  action  which,  he  averred, 
had  prevented  war  with  Japan.  He  spoke  of  his  trip  to 
the  continent,  of  kings  and  "little  kings."  Here  the  Con- 
sul-General audibly  shuddered.  "But,"  he  continued,  "of 
all  the  monarchs  I  have  met,  the  Kaiser  is  the  only  one 
who  could  have  carried  his  own  ward  if  he  were  an  Amer- 
ican politician."  He  pounded  the  table  with  his  fists.  "Of 
all  the  European  royalties,"  he  exclaimed,  "the  Kaiser  is 
the  only  one  whom,  morally  and  intellectually,  I  would  care 
to  meet  as  an  equal." 


ROOSEVELT  77 

Mr.  Roosevelt's  references  to  England  (in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  German  Consul-General )  were  little  short  of 
amazing.  "When  I  became  President,"  he  said  (each 
word  remains  seared  in  my  brain),  "I  so  detested  the 
English  that  I  had  to  make  a  vow  to  myself  not  to  permit 
my  prejudice  to  interfere  with  my  duties."  He  described 
his  more  recent  experiences  in  England,  recalling  gleefully 
the  advice  he  had  given  John  Bull  on  the  government  of 
his  colonies.  "Most  Americans,"  he  said  (I  am  willing  to 
vouch  for  this  under  oath,  if  needs  be),  "either  detest  the 
English  or  fawn  upon  them.  I  gave  them  a  new  experi- 
ence. I  patronized  them."  And  he  laughed  the  hearty 
laugh  of  a  boy.  "I  am  proud,"  Mr.  Roosevelt  continued, 
"that  there  is  not  in  my  veins  a  drop  of  English  blood." 
Even  in  those  days,  when  I  looked  upon  the  Colonel 
through  the  glasses  of  my  admiration,  this  remark  seemed 
to  be  lacking  in  taste.  I  do  not  know  if  it  even  coincides 
with  the  facts. 

The  blood  of  many  races  surged  through  that  ruddy 
form  of  his.  Psychologically  he  was  a  Viking.  So  fast 
the  swift  blood  coursed  that,  unwittingly,  it  destroyed  the 
channels  through  which  it  traveled.  Roosevelt's  blood 
pressure,  even  in  his  best  years,  was  phenomenally  high. 
It  was  a  clot  of  blood  in  the  brain  that  killed  him.  I  some- 
times wonder  if  it  was  perchance  a  clot  of  that  German 
blood  of  which  he  so  often  boasted,  that,  rebelling  against 
the  master's  denunciation  of  his  own  antecedents,  finally 
burst  the  vessel  assunder.  But  under  the  Viking  strain, 


78  ROOSEVELT 

another  element,  far  more  elusive,  entered  into  his  com- 
position. One  of  his  biographers  informs  me  that  the 
Roosevelt  family  is  of  Dutch- Jewish  descent.  If  this  ac- 
cords with  the  truth,  the  East  Side  politicians  who  ex- 
horted the  children  of  New  York's  Ghetto  to  vote  for 
"Theodore  Rosenfeld"  stumbled  unawares  upon  a  discov- 
ery that,  to  the  world  at  large,  is  nothing  short  of  amazing. 
Perhaps  the  Oriental  admixture  accounts  for  his  subtler 
moods  and  for  the  astonishing  vivacity  of  his  mind ! 

I  cannot  recall  all  he  told  us,  but  his  remarks  on  England 
are  engraved  in  my  memory.  They  altered  my  political 
"orientation."  Until  that  time,  I  was  a  great  admirer  of 
the  English.  The  very  first  sonnet  in  the  "Nineveh"  col- 
lection is  a  salutation  to  England.  Mr.  Roosevelt's  words 
profoundly  affected  my  attitude  on  Anglo-American  rela- 
tions. Here  was  a  man  I  worshipped,  a  former  President 
of  the  United  States,  frankly  avowing  his  anti-British  bias ! 
From  that  day  on  antipathy  against  Great  Britain  seemed 
to  me  the  quintessence  of  Americanism.  How  could  I 
know  that  underneath  Roosevelt's  hatred  of  Great  Britain 
there  slumbered,  ambivalently,  the  heart  of  an  Englishman, 
who  was  willing  to  concede  without  question  to  Great 
Britain  the  mastery  of  the  seas? 

Of  the  German  language  Mr.  Roosevelt  spoke  in  glow- 
ing terms.  I  do  not  remember  his  words,  for  he  said 
exactly  what  I  expected.  He  wound  up  with  an  earnest 
appeal  on  my  behalf.  Unfortunately,  so  much  time  had 
been  consumed  by  him  in  various  recitals  that  my  friends 


ROOSEVELT  79 

hastened  back  to  their  offices  without  pledging  support  to 
my  undertaking.  The  financial  harvest  of  the  luncheon 
was  scant.  However,  eventually  $10,000  was  collected. 
Hardly  anyone,  with  the  exception  of  myself,  was  able  to 
say  a  word  at  the  luncheon.  Roosevelt  absolutely  monopo- 
lized the  conversation.  Men  gladly  listened  to  him  because 
there  could  be  no  question  of  his  fascination.  When  he 
said  good-bye  to  us,  he  thanked  us  for  having  had  "such 
an  instructive  time."  I  wonder  if  his  humor  was  entirely 
unconscious  ?  Perhaps  when  God  created  him,  he  omitted 
the  funny-bone.  Three  or  four  times  during  Mr.  Roose- 
velt's discourse,  I  gently  attempted  to  interrupt  him  in 
order  to  guide  his  thoughts  into  channels  conducive  to  my 
plans.  But  each  time,  his  hand,  like  the  huge  paw  of  a 
lion,  descended  upon  my  shoulder,  and  pushed  me  back 
into  my  seat.  And  each  time  I  was  thrilled  anew. 

Roosevelt  compelled  attention  by  sheer  physical  mag- 
netism. William  Bayard  Hale,  in  his  brilliant  study  of 
Theodore  Roosevelt,  entitled,  "A  Week  in  the  White 
House,"  dwells  on  this  aspect  of  his  personality.  "Roose- 
velt," Dr.  Hale  insists,  "is  first  of  all  a  physical  marvel. 
He  radiates  energy  as  the  sun  radiates  light  and  heat,  and 
he  does  it  apparently  without  losing  a  particle  of  his  own 
energy.  It  is  not  merely  remarkable,  it  is  a  simple  miracle 
that  he  can  exhibit,  for  one  day,  the  power  which  emanates 
from  him  like  energy  from  a  dynamo.  Once  we  all  be- 
lieved in  a  beautiful  law  known  as  that  of  the  conserva- 
tion of  energy.  No  force,  so  went  the  dream,  was  lost.  It 


80  ROOSEVELT 

was  only  transformed;  it  underwent  metamorphosis;  thi 
sum  of  energy  in  the  universe  was  always  the  same.  I 
was  the  discovery  of  radium  and  the  radioactive  substance: 
which  wrought  the  discomfiture  of  that  law.  It  is  Mr 
Roosevelt  who  discredits  it  entirely.  He  never  knows  tha 
virtue  has  gone  out  of  him.  He  radiates  from  morning 
until  night,  and  he  is  nevertheless  always  radiant."  Thi: 
was  written  in  1908.  To-day  we  know  that  the  cosmic  lav 
is  inexorable.  The  dusk  of  doom  envelops  even  the  gods 
Even  the  virtue  of  radium  exhausts  itself  in  the  end 
However  in  1911  Roosevelt  was  still  all-radiant!  It  seemec 
sacrilege  to  think  that  it  could  ever  be  otherwise! 

When  we  expressed  surprise  at  his  candor,  he  told  ui 
his  confidence  had  never  been  violated.  He  always  talkec 
frankly,  exuberantly,  to  the  newspaper  men  who  were  con- 
stantly swarming  around  him,  yet  he  had  never  reason  tc 
regret  this  policy.  Indiscretion  was  the  better  part  of  hi< 
popularity.  If  any  man  quoted  him,  contrary  to  the  implied 
gentlemen's  agreement,  he  calmly  consigned  the  culprit  tc 
the  Ananias  Club.  Roosevelt  thus  had  the  privilege  of  al- 
ways being  himself.  He  availed  himself  of  it  by  being 
consistently  inconsistent.  Now  that  Mr.  Roosevelt's  death 
has  released  newspaper  men  from  the  tacit  pledge  oi 
secrecy,  startling  revelations  may  be  expected. 

In  the  first  number  of  Rundschau  Zweier  Welten  ap- 
pears the  following  carefully-worded  letter  from  Theodore 
Roosevelt : 


©  International  News  Service. 

BEFORE  ARMAGEDDON 
Note  the  Rundschau  Zwcier  IVcltcn  on  Mr.  Roosevelt's  desk. 


ROOSEVELT  81 

THE  OUTLOOK, 
287  Fourth  Avenue, 

New  York. 
Office  of 
Theodore  Roosevelt. 

December  23d,  1910. 

My  Dear  Mr.  Viereck : — I  am  much  pleased  to  learn  that  you 
are  to  help  start  an  international  magazine,  intended  to  por- 
tray and  develop  both  German  and  American  culture.  I  have, 
as  you  know,  heartily  believed  in  the  culture  exchange  move- 
ment as  being  of  peculiar  importance  to  both  countries.  I  feel 
that  in  America  there  is  especial  need  of  keeping  alive  a  thor- 
ough knowledge  of  German ;  and  I  believe  that  your  magazine 
will  not  only  help  in  this  direction,  but  will  help  in  the  converse 
way,  by  interpreting  American  events  to  your  readers  beyond 
the  ocean. 
Wishing  you  good  luck,  I  am, 

Sincerely  yours, 

THEODORE  ROOSEVELT. 
Mr.  George  Sylvester  Viereck, 

Current  Literature  Publishing  Co., 
New  York  City. 

Before  this  I  received  the  following  personal  note : 

THE  OUTLOOK, 
287  Fourth  Avenue, 

New  York. 
Editorial  Rooms. 

November  22d,  1910. 

My  Dear  Mr.  Viereck : — I  appreciate  your  letter,  and  I  want 
now  to  take  the  opportunity  of  saying  how  greatly  I  enjoyed 
the  lunch  you  were  so  kind  as  to  give  me.  I  do  hope  that  your 
magazine  project  will  succeed. 

Faithfully  yours, 

THEODORE  ROOSEVELT. 
Mr.  George  Sylvester  Viereck, 

The  German  Current  Literature, 
134  West  29th  Street, 
New  York  City. 


"THERE   IS   ESPECIAL    NEED    OF    KEEPING    ALIVE 
A   THOROUGH    KNOWLEDGE    OF   GERMAN" 


?  Outlook 


287  Fourth  Avenue 

New  York 
Office  of 
Theodore  Roosevelt 

December  23rd,  1910. 

My  dear  Mr.  Viereck; 

I  am  muoh  pleased  to  learn  that  you  *TB 

to  help  start  an  International  magazine,  intended  to  portray 
and  develop  both  German  and  American  culture.   I  have,  as 
you  know,  heartily  believed  In  the  culture  exchange  move- 
ment as  Delng  of  peculiar  Importance  to  both  countries.   I 
feel  that  In  America  there  is  especial  need  of  keeping  alive 
a  thorough  knowledge  of  German;  and  I  believe  that  your 
magazine  will  not  only  help  In  this  direction,  but  will  help 
in  the  converse  nay,  by  Interpreting  American  events  to  your 
readers  beyond  the  ocean 

Wishing  you  good  luck,  I  am, 

Sincerely  yours 


Mr  George  Sylvester  Viereck, 

Current  Literature  Publishing  Co 
New  York  City. 


ROOSEVELT  83 

No  doubt  Mr.  Roosevelt  would  have  liked  to  expunge 
these  messages  from  the  record,  together  with  his  one-time 
approval  of  the  neutrality  of  President  Wilson  and  the 
German  invasion  of  Belgium.  I  speak  without  bitterness, 
for  I  cannot  forget  Mr.  Roosevelt's  kindness  to  me.  In 
1912  the  Rundschau  Zweier  Welt  en  ardently  championed 
the  cause  of  Theodore  Roosevelt  (at  the  expense  of  its 
circulation).  Over  my  desk  at  this  moment  hangs  a 
picture  of  Theodore  Roosevelt,  holding  in  his  hands  a 
copy  of  the  Rundschau. 

Then  came  the  stirring  days  of  Progressivism. 


Onward,  Christian  Soldiers 


V 

1V/J  Y  enthusiasm  for  Roosevelt  rose  to  a  high  pitch 
in  Chicago.  We  Progressives  had  great  difficulty 
in  obtaining  tickets  for  the  Republican  Convention.  I 
facetiously  wrote  to  Victor  Rosewater,  doughty  fighter  and 
gentleman,  albeit  the  man  whose  gavel  crushed  the  hopes 
of  Theodore  Roosevelt :  "Shall  it  be  said  to  the  shame  of 
the  Republican  Party  that  the  greatest  American  poet 
vainly  knocked  for  entrance  at  its  gate  ?"  I  frankly  added 
that  I  was  not  on  his  side,  but  "on  the  side  of  the  angels." 
Victor  replied:  "If  you  come  out  to  Chicago,  it  will  not  be 
said  that  the  'greatest  American  poet'  will  be  refused  ad- 
mission so  long  as  his  admirer,  and  friend,  is  chairman 
of  the  National  Committee."  At  the  Convention,  I  shouted 
myself  hoarse  for  Roosevelt  day  after  day.  Then  the  great 
moment  came.  Roosevelt  broke  with  his  Party.  "Gentle- 
men," announced  someone — I  think  it  was  Hadley,  of  Mis- 
souri— "a  message  from  Colonel  Theodore  Roosevelt." 
The  message  was  heard  in  silence.  The  rest  is  history. 

At  the  Progressive  Convention  that  nominated  him  for 
the  Presidency  Roosevelt  made  his  great  speech:  "We 
stand  at  Armageddon  and  battle  for  the  Lord."  The  sen- 
tence (as  he  freely  admits  in  a  subsequent  letter  to  me) 
was  an  unconscious  reminiscence  of  an  ode  by  Brownell. 
I  was  carried  away  by  the  fine  hysteria  of  those  brave 
days.  I  discovered  my  "Social  Conscience."  "The  Hymn 
of  Armageddon  embodies  this  mood: 


ROOSEVELT 


THE  HYMN  OF  ARMAGEDDON 

"And  I  stood  upon  the  sands  of  the  sea,  and  I  saw  a  beast 
rise  up  out  of  the  sea,  having  seven  heads.  .  .  .  And  he  gath- 
ered them  together  into  a  place  called  in  the  Hebrew  tongue 
Armageddon.  .  .  .  And  the  great  city  was  divided  into  three 
parts/' — The  Apocalypse. 

A  POCALYPTIC  thunders  roll  out  of  the  crimson  East : 

The  Day  of  Judgment  is  at  hand,  and  we  shall  slay  the  Beast. 
What  are  the  seven  heads  of  him,  the  Beast  that  shall  be  slain? 
Sullivan,  Taggart,  Lorimer,  Barnes,  Penrose,  Murphy,  Crane. 
Into  what  cities  leads  his  trail  in  venom  steeped,  and  gore  ? 
Ask  Frisco,  ask  Chicago,  mark  New  York  and  Baltimore. 
Where  shall  we  wage  the  battle,  for  whom  unsheath  the  sword  ? 
We  stand  at  Armageddon  and  we  battle  for  the  Lord! 

Though  hell  spit  forth  its  snarling  host  we  shall  not  flinch  nor 

quail, 

For  in  the  last  great  skirmish  God's  own  truth  must  prevail. 
Have  they  not  seen  the  writing  that  flames  upon  the  wall, 
Of  how  their  house  is  built  on  sand,  and  how  their  pride  must  fall  ? 
The  cough  of  little  lads  that  sweat  where  never  sun  sheds  light, 
The  sob  of  starving  children  and  their  mothers  in  the  night, 
These,  and  the  wrong  of  ages,  we  carry  as  a  sword, 
Who  stand  at  Armageddon  and  who  battle  for  the  Lord! 

God's  soldiers  from  the  West  are  we,  from  North,  and  East  and 

South, 

The  seed  of  them  who  flung  the  tea  into  the  harbor's  mouth, 
And  those  who  fought  where  Grant  fought  and  those  who  fought 

with  Lee, 
And  those  who  under  alien  stars  first  dreamed  of  liberty. 


ON    ELECTION    DAY 


?  Outlook 


287  Fourth  Avenue 
New  York 

_,    Offlce  of  November  4th  1912. 

iheodore  Roosevelt 


Bear  Vlereck: 

Let  me  thank  you  now  for  all  you  have  done  for  me,  Many 
a  leader  must  fall  at  Armageddon  before  the  long  fight  Is 
won. 

Faithfully  yours. 


90  ROOSEVELT 

Not  those  of  little  faith  whose  speech  is  soft,  whose  ways  are  dark, 
Nor  those  upon  whose  forehead  the  Beast  has  set  his  mark, 
Out  of  the  Hand  of  Justice  we  snatch  her  faltering  sword, 
We  stand  at  Armageddon  and  we  battle  for  the  Lord! 

The  sternest  militant  of  God  whose  trumpet  in  the  fray 

Has  cleft  the  city  into  three  shall  lead  us  on  this  day. 

The  holy  strength  that  David  had  is  his,  the  faith  that  saves, 

For  he  shall  free  the  toilers  as  Abe  Lincoln  freed  the  slaves. 

And  he  shall  rouse  the  lukewarm  and  those  whose  eyes  are  dim, 

The  hope  of  twenty  centuries  has  found  a  voice  in  him. 

Because  the  Beast  shall  froth  with  wrath  and  perish  by  his  sword, 

He  leads  at  Armageddon  the  legions  of  the  Lord! 

For  he  shall  move  the  mountains  that  groan  with  ancient  sham, 
And  mete  with  equal  measure  to  the  lion  and  the  lamb, 
And  he  shall  wipe  away  the  tears  that  burn  on  woman's  cheek, 
For  in  the  nation's  council  hence  the  mothers,  too,  shall  speak. 
Through  him  the  rose  of  peace  shall  blow  from  the  red  rose  of 

strife, 

America  shall  write  his  name  into  the  Book  of  Life. 
And  where  at  Armageddon  we  battle  with  the  sword 
Shall  rise  the  mystic  commonwealth,  the  City  of  the  Lord! 

I  made  stump  speeches  for  Roosevelt.  I  recited  my 
poem.  I  was  a  delegate  to  the  Progressive  State  Conven- 
tion that  nominated  Oscar  S.  Straus.  I  attempted  to  corral 
the  German  American  vote  for  T.  R.  Roosevelt  knew 
of  these  activities.  A  letter  in  his  own  handwriting  ad- 
dressed to  "Dear  Oscar"  (Oscar  S.  Straus)  bears  witness 
to  this  fact.  Then  tragedy  stalked  in  Milwaukee.  Roose- 
velt was  shot  by  a  crank.  The  world  grew  black  for  me. 


FROM    THE    SICK   BED 

After  the  attempted  assassination  in  Milwaukee. 


Th?  Outlook 

287  Fourth  Avenue 
New  York 

Office  of  February  29th,  1912, 

Theodore  Roosevelt 


Dear  Mr.  Vlereck: 

I  have  only  time  to  send  tnis  one  line 
of  thanks  and  appreciation  for  all  your  kindness, 
Faithfully  yours  , 


George  Sylvester  Vlereck, 
134  west  29th  Street, 
New  York  City. 


92  ROOSEVELT 

I  sent  him  a  telegram  placing  the  responsibility  for  the  deed 
upon  the  broad  shoulders  of  Taft.  I  trembled  as  his  life 
hung  in  the  balance.  I  learned  by  heart  the  noble  speech 
he  made  with  a  bullet  in  his  body.  Theatrical — perhaps, 
but  surely  tremendous!  On  his  sick  bed  Mr.  Roosevelt 
did  not  forget  me.  He  sent  me  the  following  letter  dated 
February  29th : 

Dear  Mr.  Viereck: — I  have  only  time  to  send  this  one  line 
of  thanks  and  appreciation  for  all  your  kindness. 

Faithfully  yours, 

THEODORE  ROOSEVELT. 

The  campaign  drew  near  the  end.  I  believed  in  a  miracle 
— the  election  of  Theodore  Roosevelt.  Roosevelt  evidently 
did  not  share  this  belief.  On  Election  Day,  before  the 
result  of  the  election  was  known,  he  found  the  time  to 
send  me  this  message : 

Dear  Viereck: — Let  me  thank  you  now  for  all  you  have 
done  for  me.    Many  a  leader  must  fall  at  Armageddon  before 

the  long  fight  is  won. 

Faithfully  yours, 

THEODORE  ROOSEVELT. 


Roosevelt  the  Man  of  Letters 


VI. 

A  FTER  the  election  Roosevelt's  mind  turned  from 
politics  to  literature  and  adventure.  I  was  still  a 
strong  Roosevelt  man.  The  Colonel's  pronounced  an- 
tipathy against  Wilson  poisoned  my  own  pen.  It  influenced 
my  editorials  in  The  International  and  the  early  policy  of 
The  Fatherland.  Between  1912  and  1914,  my  own  inter- 
ests were  predominantly  literary.  I  transferred  my  ad- 
miration from  Roosevelt  the  leader  to  Roosevelt  the  man 
of  letters.  I  admired  the  rhythmic  swing  of  his  sentences. 
I  realized  that  America  had  lost  a  poet  in  Theodore  Roose- 
velt. His  dynamics  lacked  only  verse  to  make  him  greater 
than  Whitman.  He  would  have  made  literature  if  he  had 
not  made  history.  I  reviewed  his  book,  "History  as  Litera- 
ture," in  The  International  shortly  before  my  trip  to 
Europe  in  1914.  Before  me  lies  a  copy  of  the  book  with 
this  inscription:  "To  George  Sylvester  Viereck  with  all 
good  wishes  from  Theodore  Roosevelt."  Appended  to  the 
book  is  a  letter,  dated  May  27th,  from  Roosevelt's  secre- 
tary, Mr.  Frank  Harper.  He  says : 

Mr.  Roosevelt  has  just  read  your  review  of  his  essays  which 
appeared  in  a  recent  number  of  The  International.  He  asked 
me  to  say  that  there  is  no  review  of  any  of  his  works  which 
he  has  seen  recently  which  has  given  him  so  much  pleasure 
as  this  one.  It  is  one  of  the  best  things  he  has  ever  seen,  and 
shows  a  keen  appreciation  of  what  Mr.  Roosevelt  tried  to 
convey. 


96  ROOSEVELT 

Whatever  we  may  have  said  about  each  other  in  the  last 
few  years,  there  was  a  time  when  appreciation  was  mutual. 

In  spite  of  his  robust  mentality,  Roosevelt  was  not  (am- 
bivalently) lacking  in  subtlety.  If  he  had  been  only  an  ex- 
ponent of  the  strenuous,  he  would  not  have  remembered 
"Nineveh"  with  pleasure.  He  would  have  been  distressed 
by  my  second  collection  of  verse,  "The  Candle  and  the 
Flame,"  to  which  my  friends  fondly  refer  as  "The  Scandal 
and  the  Shame."  (I  think  the  phrase  was  invented  by  the 
heroic  Charles  Hanson  Towne.)  I  mislaid  Mr.  Roosevelt's 
letter  of  acknowledgment.  It  contained  praise.  It  also 
conveyed  criticism.  One  phrase  especially  clings  to  my 
memory.  "I  liked  everything  in  the  book"  (I  quote  from 
my  recollection)  "except  the  reference  to  Wilde.  Perhaps 
this  is  due  to  some  atavistic  Puritanism  in  me.  .  .  ."  Ata- 
vistic Puritanism !  What  a  delightful  phrase !  The  man 
who  can  speak  of  his  own  Puritanism  as  atavistic  is  no 
longer  a  Puritan  in  his  brain. 


The  Storm  Clouds  Gather 


VII. 

T  DO  not  remember  the  date  of  my  first  visit  to  Oyster 
Bay.  Mr.  Roosevelt  had  invited  my  parents  and  me  to 
be  his  guests  at  luncheon.  He  received  us  with  charming 
rustic  simplicity.  His  main  living-room,  littered  with  lion 
skins  and  books,  was  a  little  museum  filled  with  Roosevelt 
trophies.  He  showed  us  the  books  on  German  art  pre- 
sented to  him  by  the  Kaiser.  (He  did  not  value  Wilhelm's 
judgment  as  an  art  critic.)  Of  course,  he  quoted  the 
Nibelungenlied.  He  always  quoted  the  Nibelungenlied. 
He  also  showed  us  the  famous  photograph  under  which 
the  Kaiser  had  written,  "From  the  Commander-in- Chief 
of  the  German  Army  to  the  Colonel  of  the  Rough  Riders." 
I  may  not  remember  the  wording  exactly,  but  it  was  some- 
thing to  that  effect.  He  told  us  of  vain  attempts  made  by 
the  German  Foreign  Office  to  recapture  a  number  of 
Imperial  snapshots  from  him. 

Mrs.  Loeb,  the  wife  of  his  former  private  secretary, 
presided  over  the  luncheon  in  the  absence  of  Mrs.  Roose- 
velt. The  mind  is  curiously  constituted.  Often  it  cannot 
recall  matters  of  real  importance  while  a  trivial  incident 
impresses  us  vividly.  I  remember  that  at  lunch  we  had  a 
dreadful  pink  lemonade,  a  sort  of  mint  julep  with  the  julep 
omitted.  One  of  Mr.  Roosevelt's  guests  on  this  occasion 
was  Governor  Whitman,  who  had  made  the  journey  to 


100  ROOSEVELT 

Sagamore  Hill  in  order  to  obtain  the  Colonel's  indorse- 
ment. His  pilgrimage  proved  in  vain.  Roosevelt  had  lost 
the  sure  political  instinct  of  his  former  years.  He  never, 
since  his  own  defeat,  indorsed  a  winning  candidate.  Every 
candidate  bearing  his  stamp  seemed  to  be  foreordained  to 
defeat. 

In  the  summer  of  1914,  I  went  to  Europe.  Before  my 
return  the  war  clouds  began  to  gather.  I  came  back  by 
way  of  Boston  in  order  to  spend  a  few  days  with  Pro- 
fessor Muensterberg.  In  the  three  days  I  stayed  under  his 
roof,  history  moved  with  Seven  League  Boots.  Ultimatum 
was  succeeded  by  ultimatum.  Ten  days  after  the  German 
mobilization  the  first  copy  of  The  Fatherland  appeared  on 
the  streets  of  New  York.  I  asked  Mr.  Roosevelt  for  a 
contribution  to  the  first  number.  He  replied  as  follows: 

THEODORE  ROOSEVELT 
30  E.  42d  Street, 

New  York  City. 

August  8,  1914. 

Dear  Viereck: — I  am  very  glad  to  hear  from  you  and  to 
know  what  your  plans  are.  But,  of  course,  as  you  say,  my 
desire  is  at  present  to  avoid  in  any  way  saying  anything  that 
would  tend  to  exaggerate  and  inflame  the  war  spirit  on  either 
side  and  to  be  impartial ;  I  simply  do  not  know  the  facts.  It  is 
a  melancholy  thing  to  see  such  a  war. 

Faithfully  yours, 

THEODORE  ROOSEVELT. 
George  Sylvester  Viereck,  Esq., 

Editor,  The  International, 
New  York,  N.  Y. 


ROOSEVELT  101 

In  those  days,  Mr.  Roosevelt  was  neutral.  Yet  neutrality 
was  contrary  to  his  nature.  If  he  had  not  been  head  over 
heels  pro- Ally,  he  would  have  been  violently  pro-German. 
He  could  not  see  a  fight  without  "throwing  his  hat  in  the 
ring." 


With  Dr.  Dernburg  in  Oyster  Bay 


VIII. 

'T'HE  waves  of  public  excitement  rose  almost  as  high  in 
America  as  in  Europe.    The  German  point  of  view 
was  without  an  accredited  spokesman  until  the  arrival  of 
Dr.  Dernburg.     Little  recking  of  the  gigantic  forces  that 
were  unleashed  against  them,  the  pro-Germans  attempted 
to  win  America  to  their  point  of  view  by  argumentation. 
This  was,  of  course,  entirely  mistaken.    Reason  never  won 
heart  of  fair  lady  or  public  opinion:    Remembering  Roose- 
velt's dislike  for  England,  I  expected  him  to  champion  the 
German  cause.     At  first  I  was  chagrined  by  his  silence. 
His  growing  Pro-Ally  proclivity  stabbed  me  to  the  heart. 
Hearing  Dernburg  week  after  week,  I  did  not  see  how 
anyone  could  resist  his  relentless  logic.    His  powerful  per- 
sonality was  no  less  dynamic  than  Roosevelt's,  although 
touched  perhaps  more  obviously  by  the  old  world's  sophisti- 
cation.   A  meeting  of  the  two  intellects,  it  seemed  to  me, 
would  be  an  epic  occasion.    The  temptation  was  irresistible. 
I  arranged  for  an  interview  between  the  two  men.     Mr. 
Roosevelt  graciously  invited  us  to  Sagamore  Hill.    I  shall 
never  forget  our  trip  to  Oyster  Bay.     The  car  bore  us 
swiftly,  but  no  more  swiftly  than  speech  flowed  from  the 
lips  of  Dernburg.    He  possessed  a  wonderful  gift  of  mar- 
shalling facts  and  figures  convincingly.    His  mind,  travel- 
ing like  a  searchlight,  illuminated  in  rapid  succession  the 
most  diverse  and  abstruse  economical  problems. 


106  ROOSEVELT 

Roosevelt  received  us  at  the  door.  He  was  a  courteous 
host.  He  at  once  brought  up  a  book  which  Dr.  Dernburg 
had  presented  to  him  years  ago  in  Berlin.  Dr.  Dernburg 
had  forgotten  the  incident.  He  was  deeply  touched  by  Mr. 
Roosevelt's  remembrance.  Mr.  Roosevelt's  memory  was 
not  the  least  of  his  assets.  In  politics  a  good  memory  is 
more  important  than  a  good  cause.  The  man  in  the  street 
is  not  impressed  by  reason,  but  he  is  profoundly  affected 
if  some  great  man  remembers  that  he  once  shook  hands 
with  him  on  a  railway  station.  Mr.  Roosevelt  was  con- 
scious of  this  power.  He  used  it  to  the  utmost.  Flattery 
is  the  most  potent  weapon  of  rulers  of  men,  irrespec- 
tive of  sex:  it  serves  equally  the  statesman  and  the 
hetaera. 

Mr.  Roosevelt's  memory  was  evidently  untouched  by 
his  South  American  fever.  But  I  was  shocked  by  the 
change  in  the  man.  There  was  no  question  of  his 
physical  deterioration.  The  malady  that  eventually 
killed  him  was  already  devouring  his  strength.  The 
Rough  Rider  was  only  a  shell  of  his  former  self.  He 
himself  sadly,  quizzically,  referred  to  his  gout.  .  .  . 
As  he  turned  his  tortured  face  upon  me  my  only 
sensation  was  pity.  At  dinner  we  discussed  many  things. 
We  reserved  Belgium  for  the  dessert.  Woman  Suffrage 
bobbed  up  during  the  conversation.  Roosevelt  did  not 
seem  over-enthusiastic  on  the  subject.  He  believed  that 
it  made  no  real  difference,  because  there  is  no  fundamental 
difference  between  women  and  men.  Feminine  suffrage 


ROOSEVELT  107 

merely  increases  the  number  of  voters.  After  dinner  came 
the  trial  of  strength.  I  am  sorry  that  I  was  the  only  wit- 
ness of  the  intellectual  wrestling  match  between  Theodore 
Roosevelt  and  Bernhard  Dernburg  in  the  Trophy  Room 
at  Sagamore  Hill. 

Both  men  were  powerfully  equipped  mentally.  Roose- 
velt's physical  suffering  had  not  impaired  his  power  of 
dialectics.  Both  were,  as  all  great  men  must  necessarily  be, 
colossal  egotists.  Egotism,  in  the  parlance  of  Dr.  Tannen- 
baum,  one  of  the  keenest  interpreters  of  Freud,  is  the  de- 
fensive measure  erected  by  genius  against  its  environment. 
Without  this  protective  armor,  the  man  of  genius  would 
be  not  the  captain  of  his  soul  but  the  helpless  victim  of 
mediocrity  and  of  circumstance.  Roosevelt  spoke.  He 
spoke  cuttingly.  His  voice,  although  high-pitched,  seemed 
to  fill  the  room.  He  stated  the  case  against  Germany  with 
eloquence  and  precision.  Once  Dr.  Dernburg  wished  to 
interpose  an  objection.  Down  came  that  arm  as  it  did  on 
me  at  my  luncheon.  Mr.  Roosevelt  brooked  no  interrup- 
tion. At  last  he  paused.  Availing  himself  of  the  oppor- 
tunity, Dr.  Dernburg  now  pleaded  his  cause.  He  seemed 
to  have  the  better  of  the  argument  logically.  He  quoted 
resolutions  passed  by  the  United  States  Senate  that  were 
unknown  even  to  Mr.  Roosevelt.  His  facts,  like  so  many 
tin  soldiers,  marched  before  us  in  orderly  procession. 
Where  Roosevelt  had  been  brutal  at  times,  Dernburg  was 
subtle.  His  very  subtlety  militated  against  him.  At  one 
time,  Roosevelt  wished  to  interrupt  him.  This  time  Dr. 


108  ROOSEVELT 

Dernburg  protested,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  the 
Colonel  was  silenced. 

It  must  have  been  almost  midnight  before  both  men 
had  completed  their  argument.  I  chirped  in  now  and  then. 
However,  this  duel  of  two  minds  equally  matched  taught 
me  the  utter  futility  of  controversy.  Neither  man  had  con- 
vinced the  other.  Their  real  convictions  were  fed  by  deep 
racial  roots,  hidden  in  the  subconscious,  beyond  the  probe 
of  argument.  Dr.  Dernburg  left,  believing  that  his  visit 
had  not  been  entirely  in  vain.  Perhaps  Mr.  Roosevelt 
imagined  that  he  made  a  convert  of  Dr.  Dernburg.  I  know 
that  neither  had  made  the  slightest  impression  upon  the 
other.  I  saw  that  the  chasm  between  the  two  states  of 
mind  (or  of  heart)  could  not  be  bridged.  Freud  (in  his 
little  book  on  "Reflections  on  War  and  Death")  gives  us 
the  explanation  for  the  spiritual  blindness  which  in  times 
of  emotional  crisis  necessarily  shuts  out  the  other  man's 
point  of  view.  "Even  science,"  he  says,  "has  lost  her  dis- 
passionate impartiality.  Her  deeply  embittered  votaries 
are  intent  upon  seizing  her  weapons  to  do  their  share  in 
the  battle  against  the  enemy.  The  anthropologist  has  to 
declare  his  opponent  inferior  and  degenerate,  the  psychia- 
trist must  diagnose  him  as  mentally  deranged.  The  lack  of 
insight  that  the  greatest  intellectual  leaders  on  either  side 
have  shown,  the  obduracy,  their  inaccessibility  to  the  most 
impressive  arguments,  their  uncritical  credulity  concerning 
the  most  debatable  assertions,  all  these  phenomena,"  he  tells 
us,  "are  easily  explained."  He  goes  on  to  say : 


ROOSEVELT  109 

"Students  of  human  nature  and  philosophers  have  long  ago 
taught  us  that  we  do  wrong  to  value  our  intelligence  as  an 
independent  force  and  to  overlook  its  dependence  upon  our 
emotional  life.  They  say  intellect  can  -vork  reliably  only  when 
it  is  removed  from  the  influence  of  powerful  emotional 
incitements;  otherwise  it  acts  simply  as  an  instrument  at  the 
beck  and  call  of  our  will  and  brings  about  the  results  which  the 
will  demands.  Logical  arguments  are,  therefore,  powerless 
against  affective  interests;  that  is  why  disputing  with  reasons 
which,  according  to  Falstaff,  are  as  common  as  blackberries, 
are  so  fruitless  where  our  selfish  interests  are  concerned. 
Whenever  possible  psycho-analytic  experience  has  driven  home 
this  assertion.  It  is  in  a  position  to  prove  every  day  that  the 
acutest  thinkers  suddenly  behave  as  unintelligently  as  defec- 
tives as  soon  as  their  understanding  encounters  emotional  re- 
sistance, but  that  they  regain  their  intelligence  completely  as 
soon  as  this  resistance  has  been  overcome.  The  blindness  to 
logic  which  this  war  has  so  frequently  conjured  up  in  our 
best  fellow  citizens  is,  therefore,  a  secondary  phenomenon, 
the  result  of  emotional  excitement  and  destined,,  we  hope,  to 
disappear  simultaneously  with  it." 

In  the  hall,  as  we  said  good-bye,  I  remarked  to  Mr. 
Roosevelt  that  he  was  losing  many  of  his  old-time  sup- 
porters. "That  consideration,"  he  replied  quickly,  "cannot 
sway  me.  I  know  that  I  am  finding  myself  increasingly 
out  of  touch  with  the  majority  of  my  fellow  citizens.  I 
never,"  he  added  (though  the  exact  phraseology  has  es- 
caped me),  "was  the  spokesman  of  anything  but  a  minor- 
ity." "But  your  election — "  I  remarked.  "That,"  he  re- 
plied, "was  an  accident.  I  accidentally  found  myself  tem- 


110  ROOSEVELT 

porarily  in  agreement  with  the  majority."  The  visit  to 
Oyster  Bay  led  to  a  lively  exchange  of  shots  between  Saga- 
more Hill  and  1123  Broadway,  the  headquarters  of  Dr. 
Dernburg.  One  of  the  Colonel's  thundering  epistles  was 
no  less  than  twelve  pages  in  length.  Dr.  Dernburg's  broad- 
sides were  equally  voluminous.  But,  alas!  all  correspon- 
dence was  futile.  The  two  points  of  view  were  irreconcil- 
able. It  is  impossible  to  argue  with  the  unconscious. 


The  Break 


IX. 

LJUMAN  beings  are  carried,  swept  away,  by  irresistible 
psychic  eddies.  My  break  with  Roosevelt  was  inevita- 
ble. I  saw  him  once  more  after  this.  In  response  to  an 
impetuous  letter,  he  invited  me  to  see  him.  He  told  me 
that  he  wanted  me  to  understand  him,  that  I  was  the  only 
one  of  his  German  American  friends  to  whom  he  was  will- 
ing to  confide  some  of  the  underlying  reasons  for  his  anti- 
German  attitude.  He  spoke  fiercely,  impressively.  But 
his  eloquence  failed  to  convince  me.  "Germany,"  he 
reiterated,  "is  a  nation  without  a  sense  of  international 
morality."  I  had  England's  innumerable  violations  of 
international  law  at  my  finger-tips.  The  Germans,  he 
assured  me,  were  plotting  against  us.  He  referred  to  Ger- 
many's alleged  plans  for  invading  this  country.  I  replied 
that  the  German  Army  could  not  even  swim  across  a  nar- 
row strip  of  the  Channel !  Deploring  our  "softness"  and 
lack  of  preparedness,  Mr.  Roosevelt  made  the  astonishing 
observation  that  it  might  be  a  good  thing  for  Uncle  Sam 
to  receive  a  licking  at  the  hands  of  the  Germans.  I  could 
not  agree  with  his  point  of  view.  I  did  not  believe  in 
German  intrigue.  The  Department  of  Justice  had  not 
made  its  revelations.  The  Zimmerman  note — the  deadliest 
blow  against  Pro-German  sentiment  in  the  United  States — 
slumbered  still  in  the  deepest  recesses  of  the  war-crazed 
brain  of  a  German  Geheimrat. 


114  ROOSEVELT 

I  ceased  to  look  upon  Theodore  Roosevelt  as  a  friend. 
My  secret  animosity  was  ready  to  leap  forth,  or,  to  speak 
more  scientifically,  the  other  pole  of  my  ambivalent  atti- 
tude towards  the  Colonel  deflected  the  needle  of  my  affec- 
tion. "Many  impulses,"  to  quote  Freud  once  more,  "appear 
almost  from  the  beginning  in  contrasting  pairs ;  this  is  a  re- 
markable state  of  affairs,  called  the  ambivalence  of  feeling, 
and  is  quite  unknown  to  the  layman.  This  feeling  is  best 
observed  and  grasped  through  the  fact  that  intense  love  and 
intense  hate  occur  so  frequently  in  the  same  person. 
Psychoanalysis  goes  further  and  states  that  the  two  op- 
posite feelings  not  infrequently  take  the  same  person  as 
their  object."  I  was  beginning  to  hate  Theodore  Roose- 
velt. Yet,  strange  to  say,  this  hatred  in  no  way  diminished 
my  love  for  him.  In  fact,  my  love  intensified  my  recoil. 


Crossing  Swords 


X. 

QN  February  25th,  1915,  I  wrote  Theodore  Roosevelt 
a  letter  that  was  a  challenge.  It  was  hot-tempered,  in- 
judicious, perhaps,  but  it  represented  my  feelings.  To-day 
I  know  that  I  am  a  better  poet  than  a  prophet.  I  no  longer 
claim  infallibility  as  a  historian.  I  have  been  mistaken 
too  often.  Even  at  the  risk  of  courting  offense,  I  shall 
print  the  correspondence  in  full,  to  keep  the  record 
straight. 

OFFICE  OF  GEORGE  SYLVESTER  VIERECK 

February  25th,  1915. 

My  Dear  Mr.  Roosevelt : — I  take  pleasure  in  sending  you 
the  text  of  my  debate  with  Cecil  Chesterton. 

I  certainly  regret  that  you  have  taken  a  point  of  view  so 
unfair  to  Germany.  You  have  said  many  things  which  you 
ought  to  know  to  be  at  variance  with  the  facts,  especially  in 
connection  with  Belgium. 

I  think  you  have  lost  every  German-American  friend  you 
had,  with  the  exception  of  myself.  Even  I  admit  that  I  am 
deeply  disappointed.  They  would  not  have  objected  to  your 
attitude  that  all  treaties  should  be  enforced,  but  they  do  object 
and  justly  so — to  your  continuous  insistence  upon  the  violation 
of  the  so-called  "neutrality"  of  Belgium,  while  ignoring  the 
violation  of  the  neutrality  of  the  Suez  Canal  and  ignoring  the 
violation  of  the  neutrality  of  China.  In  fact,  the  violation  of 
the  neutrality  of  China  is  of  more  importance  to  us  than  one 
hundred  Belgiums. 

Belgium  never  was  a  neutral  nation.  The  neutrality  of  Bel- 
gium was  like  the  virtue  of  a  cocotte.  You  need  not  take  my 
word  for  it  that  Germany  was  justified  in  her  course,  but 
perhaps  you  will  accept  the  word  of  the  British  Foreign  Office. 


118  ROOSEVELT 

For  that  reason  I  call  your  attention  to  page  14  of  my  debate, 
in  which  I  quote  a  passage  from  a  statement  issued  by  the 
English  Foreign  Office  which  may  have  escaped  your  attention. 

Another  cause  for  the  just  grievance  of  the  German- Amer- 
icans against  you  is  that,  in  spite  of  your  reputed  friendship 
for  the  Kaiser,  you  did  not  have  one  word  to  say  for  him 
personally  when  this  obscene  campaign  of  vilification  was 
started  against  him  in  the  American  press,  and  when  the  man, 
whose  guest  you  had  been,  was  decried  by  British  press-agents 
and  their  American  emissaries  as  "the  mad  dog  of  Europe." 

Now  Germany  no  longer  needs  apologists  nor  sympathizers. 
Her  sword  has  won  the  war.     But  I  do  not  think  that  the 
Germans  will  forget  the  attitude  of  their  fair-weather  friends" 
on  either  side  of  the  ocean. 

Faithfully  yours, 

GEORGE  SYLVESTER  VIERECK. 
Theodore  Roosevelt,  Esq., 
Oyster  Bay,  L.  I. 

To  this  letter,  I  received  the  following  reply : 

THEODORE  ROOSEVELT, 
30  E.  42d  Street, 
New  York  City. 

March  4th,  1915. 

My  Dear  Sir :— Mr.  Roosevelt  directs  me  to  say  that  the  tone 
of  your  letter,  and  especially  of  the  last  paragraphs,  is  such 
that  he  does  not  desire  to  answer  it. 

Yours  truly, 

JOHN  W.  MCGRATH, 
Secretary  to  Theodore  Roosevelt. 

Mr.  George  Sylvester  Viereck, 
1123  Broadway, 

New  York  City. 


ROOSEVELT  119 

My  answer,  dated  March  9th,  follows : 

OFFICE  OF  GEORGE  SYLVESTER  VIERECK 

March  9th,  1915. 

My  Dear  Mr.  Roosevelt : — I  received  a  note  from  your  secre- 
tary which  somewhat  surprised  me.  In  view  of  all  that  I  have 
done  for  you  in  the  past,  giving  unstintingly  of  my  enthusiasm, 
my  personality,  it  seems  that  I  have  earned  the  right  to  speak 
frankly  to  you. 

I  presume  the  sentence  to  which  you  object  is  the  reference 
to  the  "fair-weather"  friends  of  Germany.  It  seems  to  me 
indisputable  that  in  your  entire  public  career  you  have  always 
spoken  of  yourself  as  a  friend  of  Germany  and  the  Germans. 
Yet  in  the  one  great  crisis  of  her  existence  you  are  not  even 
neutral,  but  you  openly  range  yourself  among  her  enemies. 
You  repeat  without  thorough  investigation  the  English  charges 
against  Germany  and  you  do  not  seem  to  take  the  trouble  to 
read  the  German  rejoinder.  I  think  that  in  this  matter  you  are 
utterly  in  the  wrong.  For 

"—when  the  angels  fall  they  fall  so  far." 

My  Progressive  training  has  made  it  impossible  for  me  to 
see  wrong  and  remain  silent.  For  that  reason  I  must  speak 
out  even  at  the  loss  of  your  friendship,  which,  as  you  know,  is 
very  dear  to  me. 


Sincerely  yours, 

GEORGE  SYLVESTER  VIERECK. 


Theodore  Roosevelt,  Esq., 
30  East  42nd  Street, 
New  York  City. 


120  ROOSEVELT 

Six  days  lajer,  Mr.  Roosevelt  replied.  His  answer  is  a 
masterpiece  of  invective.  His  tributes  to  my  understand- 
ing, to  my  loyalty,  to  my  intellectual  accomplishments,  are 
forgotten.  His  pen  splutters  venom.  So,  at  least,  I  thought 
at  the  time.  Re-reading  the  letter  now,  I  feel  that  he  would 
not  have  written  at  all  if  his  anger  against  me  had  not  been 
hitched  to  the  wraith  of  an  old  affection.  Both  dwelled 
simultaneously  in  his  bosom.  One  also  catches  in  his  letter 
an  echo  of  his  controversy  with  Dr.  Dernburg. 


THEODORE  ROOSEVELT 
Oyster  Bay,  New  York. 

March  15th,  1915. 

My  dear  Mr.  Viereck: — In  view  of  your  second  letter,  I 
think  it  probable  that  your  first  letter  was  not  intentionally 
offensive  and  that  your  sending  it  was  due  to  mental  and  not 
moral  shortcomings :  therefore  I  answer  your  present  letter. 

I  referred  to  the  two  last  paragraphs  of  your  former  letter. 
Had  you  taken  the  trouble  to  read  my  book,  "America  and 
the  World  War,"  you  would  have  seen  that  I  spoke  in  defense 
of  the  Kaiser  and  with  appreciation  of  him.  It  is  of  course 
not  excusable  on  your  part  to  criticize  what  I  have  written 
without  reading  it. 

In  your  last  paragraph  the  insinuation  was  that  I  was  merely 
a  fair-weather  friend,  whose  misdeeds  would  be  remembered 
by  the  Germans  on  both  sides  of  the  water.  [This  is  of  course  a, 
no  doubt  unconscious,  distortion  of  my  remark.]  Your  present 
letter  shows  that  this  insinuation,  which  you  did  not  venture 
to  state  frankly,  was  aimed  at  me ;  your  basis  being  that  until 
this  war  I  had  always  "professed  friendship  for  Germany  and 


ROOSEVELT  121 

the  Germans."  You  of  course  cannot  be  ignorant  that  I  had 
equally  "professed  friendship"  for  France  and  Frenchmen; 
for  England  and  Englishmen.  I  not  only  professed  it  but  in 
each  case  I  felt  it.  What  I  have  said  about  Germany  because  of 
her  outrageous  conduct  toward  Belgium,  I  would  have  said 
exactly  as  quickly  of  France  and  England  if  they  had  been 
guilty  of  similar  conduct.  Apparently  you  regard  it  as  fair- 
weather  friendship  to  feel  good-will  toward  a  nation  and  yet 
to  condemn  that  nation  when  it  is  guilty  of  iniquity.  Such  an 
attitude  on  your  part  is  of  course  unutterably  silly;  if  not 
silly,  it  would  be  unutterably  base. 

You  say  that  I  have  paid  no  heed  to  the  facts  produced  on 
the  German  side  of  the  case.  I  have  read  these  "facts"  care- 
fully; and  I  am  astounded  at  the  effrontery  of  those  who 
produce  them.  They  establish  beyond  possibility  of  doubt  that 
Belgium  had  no  intention  of  permitting  any  violation  of 
neutrality  by  France  or  England  if  Germany  did  not  invade 
her;  but  that  she  had  grown  to  feel  it  likely  that  Germany 
would  do  as  Germany  actually  did,  namely,  break  faith,  and, 
against  every  rule  of  right  and  of  humanity,  invade  her  and 
try  to  subjugate  her;  and  that  of  course  under  these  circum- 
stances she  was  anxious  to  know  whether  there  would  be  any 
effective  protection  for  her  by  the  other  nations  that  had 
guaranteed  to  give  this  protection.  The  original  statement 
by  Bethmann-Hollweg  was  frank  and  manly.  It  admitted 
that  Belgium  had  been  wronged  and  put  Germany's  case  upon 
the  only  plea,  that  of  national  self-preservation,  which  could 
give  it  even  a  semblance  of  defensibility.  The  subsequent  at- 
tempts to  justify  Germany  by  blackening  the  character  of  poor, 
unoffending,  deeply-wronged  Belgium  have  been  peculiarly  ig- 
noble. 


THE    STORM    CLOUDS    BURST 


Oyster  Bay,  New  York, 

March  15th,    1915. 

My  clear  Mr.  Viereck: 

In  view  of  your  second  letter,  I  think  It  probable 

that  your  first  letter  was  not  intentionally  offensive  and  that 

^(\*~  J~*  to 

yon^vsen^lt  ^beeauso-a-P-  mental  and  not  moral  shortcomings:  there- 
fore I  answer  your  present  letter. 

I  referred  to  the  two  last  paragraphs  of  your  former 
letter.  Had  you  taken  the  trouble  to  read  my  book,  "America  and 
the  Forld  War",  you  would  have  seen  that  I  spoke  in  defense  of 
the  Kaiser  and  with  appreciation  of  him.   It  1-s  pf  course  not 
excusable  on  your  part  to  criticise  what  I  have  written  without 
reading  it. 

In  your  last  paragraph  the  insinuation  was  that  I  was 
merely  a  fair-weather  friend,  whose  misdeeds  would  be  remembered 
by  the  Germans  on  both  sides  of  the  water.  Your  present  letter 
shows  that  this  insinuation,  which  you  did  not  venture  to  state 
frankly,  was  aimed  at  me;  your  basis  being  that  until  this  war 
I  had  always  "professed  friendship  for  Germany  and  the  Germans^! 
You  of  course  cannot  be  Ignorant  that  I  had  equally"professed 
friendship^  for  France  and  Frenchmen,  for  England  and  Englishmen. 
I  not  only  professed  it  but  in  each  case  I  felt  it.   What  I  have 
said  about  Germany  because  of  her  outrageous  conduct  toward  Bel- 
gium, I  would  have  said  exactly  as  quickly  of  France  and  England 
if  they  had  been  gvilty  of  similar  conduct.  Apparently  you  re- 
gard it  as  fair-weather  friendship  to  feel  good  will  toward  a 


-2- 
nation  and  yet  to  condemn  that  nation  when  it  is  guilty  of  in- 

iquity.  Such  an  attitude  on  your  part  is  of  course  iX****--  un- 
v"~ 


utterably  sillyj(M\  unutterably  base 

You  say  that  I  have  paid  no  heed  to  the  focts  pro- 

*£•«*»' 

duced  on  the  German  side  of  the  case.   I  have  read  the><  care- 

t\ 

fully;  and  I  em  astounded  at  the  effrontery  of  those  who  produce 
them.   They  establish  beyond  possibility  of  doubt  that  Belgium 
had  no  intention  of  permitting  any  violation  of  neutrality  by 
France  or  England  if  Germany  did  not  Invade  her;  but  that  she 
had  grown  to  feel  it  likely  that  Germany  would  do  as  **wT'sK'tu*ally 
did,  namely,  break  faith  and,  against  every  rule  of  right  and  of 
humanity,  invade  her  and  try  to  subjugate  her  ;  and  that  of 
course  under  these  circumstances  she  was  anxious  to  know  whether 
there  would  be  any  effective  protection  for  her  by  the  other 
nations  that  had  guaranteed  to  give  tnls  protection.   The  origin- 
al statement  by  Bethmann-Hollweg  was  frank  and  manly.   It  admitted 
that  Belgium  had  been  wronged  and  put  t^^opon  tne  only 


plea,  that  of  national  s<elf-preservv*a\.icn./^  The  subsequent  atterrpts* 
to  Justify  Germany  by  blackening  the  character  of  poor,  unoffen- 
ding, deeply-wronged  Belgium  have  been  peculiarly  ignoble. 

As  you  have  written  to  me  in  such  a  tone,  *  give  you  a 
piece  of  advice  In  return.   No  man  can  retain  his  self-respect 
If  he  ostensibly  remains  as  an  American  citizen  while  he  Is  really 
doing  everything  he  can  to  subordinate  the  Interests  and  duty  of 
the  United  States  to  the  interests  of  a  foreign  land.  You  have 


-3- 

made  it  evident  that  your  whole  heart  is  with  the  country  of  your 
preference,  Germany,  and  not  with  the  country  of  your  adoption, 
the  United  States.   Under  such  circumstances  you.  are  not  a  pood 
citizen  here.   But  neither  ere  you  a  good  citizen  of  c-ermany.  You 
should  go  home  to  Germany  at  once;  abandon  your  American  citizen- 
ship, if,  as  I  understand,  you  possess  it;  and  serve  in  the  army, 
if  you  are  able,  or,  if  not,  in  any  other  position  in  which  you 
can  be  useful.   As  far  as  I  am  concerned,  I  admit  no  divided 
allegiance  in  United  States  citizenship;  and  my  views  of  hyphenated- 

Americans  are  those  which  were  onee  expressed  by  the  Emperor  himself, 
' 


when  he  said.  that  he  understood  what  Germans  were;  and  he  understood 
what  Americans  were;  but  he  had  neither  understanding  of  nor  patience 
with  those  who  called  themselves  German-Americans. 
Very  truly  yours, 


Mr;  George  Sylvester  Viereck, 
New  York  CUy. 


ROOSEVELT  125 

As  you  have  written  to  me  in  such  a  tone,  I  give  you  a  piece 
of  advice  in  return.  No  man  can  retain  his  self-respect  if  he 
ostensibly  remains  as  an  American  citizen  while  he  is  really 
doing  everything  he  can  to  subordinate  the  interests  and  duty 
of  the  United  States  to  the  interests  of  a  foreign  land.  You 
made  it  evident  that  your  whole  heart  is  with  the  country  of 
your  preference,  for  Germany,  and  not  with  the  country  of 
your  adoption,  the  United  States.  Under  such  circumstances 
you  are  not  a  good  citizen  here.  But  neither  are  you  a  good 
citizen  of  Germany.  You  should  go  home  to  Germany  at  once ; 
abandon  your  American  citizenship,  if,  as  I  understand,  you 
possess  it;  and  serve  in  the  army,  if  you  are  able,  or,  if  not,  in 
any  other  position  in  which  you  can  be  useful.  As  far  as  I 
am  concerned,  I  admit  no  divided  allegiance  in  United  States 
citizenship ;  and  my  views  of  hyphenated- Americans  are  those 
which  were  once  expressed  by  the  Emperor  himself,  when  he 
said  to  Frederick  Whitridge  that  he  understood  what  Ger- 
mans were;  and  he  understood  what  Americans  were;  but  he 
had  neither  understanding  of  nor  patience  with  those  who 
called  themselves  German-Americans. 

Very  truly  yours, 

THEODORE  ROOSEVELT. 
Mr.  George  Sylvester  Viereck, 

New  York  City. 

On  March  19th,  I  replied.  My  answer  was  stinging. 
Yet  between  the  lines  there  was  still  something  of 
my  old-time  admiration.  The  letter  is,  of  course,  intensely 
partisan.  In  reading  it  we  must  remember  that  it  was 
written  two  years  before  the  German  Government  and  the 
United  States  were  at  war. 


126  ROOSEVELT 

OFFICE  OF  GEORGE  SYLVESTER  VIERECK 

March  19,  1915. 

My  dear  Mr.  Roosevelt:— I  have  not  yet  read  your  book, 
"America  and  the  World  War."  I  have  read  your  articles  in 
the  "Metropolitan"  and  in  other  places,  and  it  was  only  to 
those  utterances  that  I  referred  in  my  letters. 

I  am  very  glad  to  hear  that  you  speak  in  defense  of  the 
Kaiser  and  with  appreciation  of  him.  Let  me  point  out,  how- 
ever, that  if  you  had  done  that  several  months  ago  when  the 
Kaiser  was  really  the  center  of  attack  you  would  have  rendered 
a  greater  service  to  him  than  now  when  the  attack  has  spent 
its  force.  One  gun  fired  while  the  fortress  is  besieged  is  of 
far  more  importance  than  a  whole  arsenal  after  it  has  been 
relieved. 

I  have  no  doubt  that  you  have  professed  friendship  for 
France  and  England  just  as  much  as  you  have  professed 
friendship  for  Germany.  But  as  you  have  laid  just  a  little 
more  emphasis  on  your  friendship  for  Germany  in  my  pres- 
ence and  in  the  presence  of  other  Americans  of  German  de- 
scent, I  may  have  been  working  under  a  misapprehension  for 
which  I  am  not  to  blame. 

As  far  as  the  case  of  Belgium  is  concerned,  I  think  that  it 
is  futile  to  discuss  it  because,  as  Muensterberg  points  out  in 
an  excellent  article,  which  I  take  pleasure  in  enclosing,  each 
reader  interprets  the  facts  according  to  his  own  inclination. 
It  is  quite  possible  for  two  equally  able  minds  to  reach  'dia- 
metrically opposed  conclusions  from  the  same  evidence.  I  think, 
however,  that  your  attitude  in  the  Belgian  matter  is  based  on  a 
misunderstanding  of  the  meaning  of  neutrality.  A  neutralized 
state  has  no  right  to  a  foreign  policy  of  its  own.  It  has  no 
right  to  make  military  conventions  such  as  Belgium  did  with 
England  and  France.  If  it  makes  such  agreements  it  thereby 
loses  its  character  as  a  neutral. 


ROOSEVELT  127 

If  at  present  your  mind  was  not  colored  by  pro-British 
sympathies,  you  would  not  lay  so  much  stress  on  the  violation 
of  the  so-called  "neutrality"  of  Belgium.  If  you  could  forget 
these  perfectly  natural  sympathies,  you  would  lay  far  more 
stress  on  the  violation  of  the  neutrality  of  China.  Surely 
any  American,  free  from  either  Pro-English  or  Pro-German 
sympathies,  would  be  compelled  to  admit  that  the  violation 
of  the  neutrality  of  China  is  of  far  more  importance  to  us 
than  the  violation  of  the  "neutrality"  of  Belgium. 

I  very  strongly  resent  your  insinuation  that  I  am  only  "os- 
tensibly" an  American  citizen  while  really  I  "subordinate" 
the  interests  and  duties  of  the  United  States  to  the  interests 
of  a  foreign  land.  My  grandfather  on  my  mother's  side 
came  to  this  country  in  1848.  My  mother  was  born  in  Cali- 
fornia. My  father  is  an  American  citizen,  and  so  am  I,  al- 
though I  came  to  this  country  at  the  age  of  eleven  from 
Germany.  I  will  not  permit  any  one,  even  a  president  of  the 
United  States,  to  read  me  out  of  the  country. 

Your  quotation  of  the  remark  of  the  German  Emperor  does 
not  alter  my  attitude  in  the  least.  I  am  under  no  obligations 
to  him  and  I  owe  no  allegiance  to  him  whatsoever.  He  can  no 
more  determine  my  status  than  you  or  any  one  else.  That  is 
a  matter  which  I  must  settle  between  my  conscience  and  the 
Constitution  of  the  United  States.  I  think  that  the  Emperor's 
statement  is  entirely  justified  from  his  point  of  view.  Politi- 
cally, as  far  as  the  relations  of  nations  among  each  other  are 
concerned,  there  can  be  no  such  thing  as  a  German-American. 
Racially,  however,  we  have  certainly  the  right  to  call  ourselves 
German-Americans.  In  fact,  in  a  country  like  this,  which 
consists  of  so  many  different  races,  it  is  inevitable  that  some 
such  classification  be  made.  The  only  unhyphened  American 
is  the  American  Indian. 


128  "ROOSEVELT 

Allow  me  to  point  out  to  you  that  you  expressed  no  indigna- 
tion whatever  when  I  offered  to  aid  you  in  organizing  the 
German-American  element  in  1912.  You  did  not  doubt  my 
authentic  Americanism  when  I  went  on  the  stump  for  you. 
You  never  questioned  my  patriotism  when  I  wrote  the  Pro- 
gressive Battle  Hymn.  Perhaps  it  is  a  mistake  to  speak  of  us 
as  German- Americans.  We  should  speak  of  ourselves  as 
German  Americans  without  the  hyphen.  There  is  no  more 
reason  why  I  should  fight  for  Germany  than  why  you  should 
go  and  fight  for  Belgium.  Although  you  are  a  former  presi- 
dent of  the  United  States  and  I  am  only  a  humble  poet,  there 
is  no  difference  whatever  in  our  rights  and  duties  as  Ameri- 
can citizens.  If  you  will  go  and  enlist  under  the  Union  Jack 
or  join  the  forces  of  King  Albert  of  Belgium,  then  I  should 
feel  that  I  would  be  under  obligation  to  fight  for  Germany. 

If  you  say  that  we  are  not  American  citizens,  then  we  will 
reply  that  you  must  change  your  conceptions  of  "American." 
We  believe  that  it  has  fallen  to  us  to  bring  back  America  to 
a  sense  of  true  Americanism.  We  believe  that  we  are  better 
Americans  than  those  who  truckle  to  Great  Britain.  It  is 
perfectly  natural  that  some  of  our  fellow  citizens  should 
sympathize  with  Great  Britain,  just  as  it  is  perfectly  natural 
that  some  of  us  should  sympathize  with  Germany,  but  the 
interests  of  this  country  are  identical  in  this  present  conflict 
with  the  interests  of  Germany.  They  are  not  identical  with  the 
interests  of  England  which  now,  under  the  pretence  of  de- 
claring a  paper  blockade  against  Germany,  has  actually  de- 
clared war  on  American  commerce. 

//  you  have  no  objection  I  shall  be  glad  to  publish  both 
your  letter  and  my  reply  in  The  Fatherland. 

Sincerely  yours, 

GEORGE  SYLVESTER  VIERECK. 
Col.  Theodore  Roosevelt, 
Oystor  Bay,  L.  I. 


ROOSEVELT  129 

The  following  two  letters  speak  for  themselves : 

Oyster  Bay, 
Long  Island,  N.  Y. 

April  2nd,  1915. 

Dear  Sir: — Mr.  Roosevelt's  letter  to  you  was  not  written 
for  publication.  He  wrote  you  privately  because  of  your 
professions  of  friendship  for  him  in  the  past;  and  he  does 
not  care  to  permit  you  to  advertise  yourself  by  the  publica- 
tion of  any  correspondence  with  him.  I  am  writing  this  at 

Mr.  Roosevelt's  direction. 

Yours  truly, 

JOHN  W.  McGRATH, 
Secretary  to  Theodore  Roosevelt. 
Mr.  George  Sylvester  Viereck, 
New  York  City. 

OFFICE  OF  GEORGE  SYLVESTER  VIERECK 

April  3rd,  1915. 
Mr.  John  W.  McGrath, 

Secretary  to  Theodore  Roosevelt, 
Oyster  Bay,  L.  I. 

Dear  Sir: — Mr.  Viereck  requests  me  to  return  your  letter, 
as  it  is  unfit  to  be  kept  in  his  files.  He  is  sure  that  Colonel 
Roosevelt  cannot  be  responsible  for  anything  in  such  utterly 
bad  taste  as  your  communication. 

Yours  truly, 

MAY  BINION, 

Secretary  to  Mr.  Viereck. 


A  Last  Message 


XL 

A  ND  yet  under  the  smoldering  embers  of  my  reproaches, 
my  old-time  regard  for  Roosevelt  was  still  latent.  I 
printed  Professor  Muensterberg's  sensational  letter,  sug- 
gesting Roosevelt  as  the  candidate  of  the  German  Amer- 
icans (much  to  the  annoyance  of  my  readers).  Still  I 
could  not  have  supported  him  under  any  circumstance.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  I  worked  hard  against  him.  The  hostility 
of  the  German  American  element,  fostered  by  me  among 
others,  was  one  of  the  factors  that  defeated  his  nomination 
by  the  Republican  Party  in  1916.  He  must  have  felt  that, 
for  he  expressed  his  surprise  to  a  mutual  friend  that  I 
should  so  bitterly  oppose  him !  I  think  that,  ambivalently, 
he  still  had  a  soft  spot  in  his  heart  for  me.  But  soft  spot 
or  no,  he  nevertheless  hit  hard  whenever  the  opportunity 
presented  itself. 

I  find  in  my  files  one  more  letter  written  to  Theodore 
Roosevelt  on  June  13,  1916. 

OFFICE  OF   GEORGE   SYLVESTER   VIERECK 

June  13,  1916. 

My  dear  Colonel  Roosevelt: — Within  the  next  few  days 
Mitchell  Kennerley  will  publish  my  new  book  of  verse,  "Songs 
of  Armageddon,"  which  contains  among  others  my  tribute  to 
you  in  1912.  I  deeply  regret  that  I  am  unable  to  pay  a  similar 
tribute  to  you  in  1916;  but  your  own  action  has  made  it  im- 
possible for  me  to  support  you. 


134  ROOSEVELT 

I  do  not  see  how  any  American  of  German  descent  can 
retain  his  self-respect  without  opposing  you.  I,  for  one,  have 
opposed  you  not  only  because  of  your  unjust  and  unneutral 
attacks  on  Germany,  but  because  you  seem  to  me  to  be  want- 
ing in  that  vigorous  Americanism  which  we  had  a  right  to 
expect  from  Theodore  Roosevelt. 

Your  partisanship  appears  from  this:  that  while  you  pro- 
tested against  the  violation  of  Belgium,  never  a  word  have  we 
heard  from  you  against  the  violation  of  Greece.  Yet  Greece 
is  a  country  and  Belgium  only  a  monstrosity,  a  mandrake 
among  nations.  There  is  racially  no  such  thing  as  a  Belgian 
people.  This  seems  to  have  escaped  you.  You  also  seem  to 
have  forgotten  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  an  Irish  race 
and  an  Irish  people.  Though  you  have  raised  your  voice 
against  the  alleged  barbarism  of  Germany,  you  have  not 
found  one  syllable  to  say  in  condemnation  of  the  murder  of 
Pearse  and  his  fellow  martyrs. 

The  most  severe  indictment  against  you,  however,  has  been 
this:  that  in  almost  two  years  you  have  not  uttered  a  single 
protest  against  the  looting  of  American  mails ;  British  lawless- 
ness on  American  soil;  and  the  strangulation  of  our  neutral 
commerce  in  defiance  of  international  law.  Instead  of  assail- 
ing the  Allies  for  their  misdeeds  you  have  assaulted  American 
citizens  for  their  patriotism.  You  have  attempted  to  outlaw 
Americans  of  German  descent  because  they  demanded  action 
not  only  against  Germany  but  also  against  Great  Britain. 

I  do  not  write  this  to  increase  your  bitterness,  but  because 
it  is  necessary  in  order  to  explain  my  point  of  view  which  is 
also  the  point  of  view  of  millions  of  my  fellow  citizens.  Your 
attacks  upon  these  citizens  jointly  with  those  of  Mr.  Wilson 
and  the  propagandists  of  Great  Britain  have  dragged  the 
hyphen  into  the  arena  of  politics.  Mr.  Wilson  has  since  de- 
sisted from  his  attacks;  but  you  continued  and  around  you 


ROOSEVELT  135 

were  gathered  in  battle  array  the  sinister  forces  of  Nativism. 
The  result  of  this  has  been  political  division  along  racial  lines. 
If  the  Knownothing  is  eliminated  the  hyphen  will  disappear 
also. 

The  night  I  had  dinner  at  your  house  with  Dr.  Dernburg 
you  said  to  me  that  you  found  yourself  growing  increasingly 
out  of  touch  with  your  fellow  citizens.  Knowing  this,  how 
could  you  imagine  that  the  munition  press,  the  Morgan  inter- 
ests and  the  Brahmins  of  New  England,  were  the  spokesmen 
of  the  American  people?  Mr.  Wilson,  coming  from  an  aca- 
demic world,  could  be  pardoned  for  such  a  mistake.  But  even 
he  realized  not  very  long  ago  that  newspaper  opinion  and  public 
opinion  are  two  different  things.  You  must  admit  that  you 
have  misread  the  heart  of  the  American  people. 

This  war  brought  to  you  the  great  opportunity  of  your  life. 
If  you  had  championed  Americanism  and  the  rights  of  America 
against  the  whole  world,  those  who  are  now  your  bitterest 
enemies  would  have  been  your  dearest  friends.  I  feel  that 
I  have  a  right  to  say  this  to  you  because  from  the  very  begin- 
ning I  maintained  this  attitude  in  my  conversations  and  in  my 
correspondence  with  you.  I  regret  now  that,  under  the  spell 
of  your  personality,  I  may  not  have  made  this  point  emphatic 
enough  when  I  was  privileged  to  discuss  the  matter  with  you 
in  person. 

I  write  this  letter  to  you  because  I  hope  that  eventually  you 
will  begin  to  realize  that  those  who  oppose  you  now  are  proba- 
bly better  friends  and  better  citizens  than  those  who,  after 
leading  you  into  a  blind  alley  with  their  plaudits,  betrayed  and 
deserted  your  cause. 

Believe  me,  my  dear  Mr.  Roosevelt, 

Sincerely  yours, 

GEORGE  SYLVESTER  VIERECK. 
Col.  Theodore  Roosevelt, 
Oyster  Bay,  L.  I. 


136  ROOSEVELT 

I  do  not  know  whether  this  letter  ever  reached  him.  At 
that  time  my  letters  frequently  went  through  other  hands 
before  they  reached  their  destination.  The  romantic  Guy 
Gaunt,  Naval  Attache  of  the  British  Embassy,  had  ap- 
peared on  the  scene.  While  the  Grand  Fleet  of  the  British 
Empire  unlawfully  seized  my  letters  on  the  High  Seas,  the 
Naval  Attache  of  the  British  Embassy  bribed  office  boys 
to  pilfer  my  mail  at  home. 


The  Broken  Leader 


XII 

HEODORE  ROOSEVELT  was  the  most  gracious  of 
friends.  He  also  was  the  most  ungracious  of  foes. 
At  first  he  frequently  attacked  me,  though  suppressing  my 
identity,  for  fear  of  making  the  welkin  ring  with  my  name. 
When  the  welkin  rang,  nevertheless,  he  openly  directed  his 
fire  against  me.  He  inspired  the  vicious  campaign  of  the 
Vigilantes  to  blot  out  my  reputation.  He  wrote  in  a 
preface  that  "Germany  counts  upon  such  men  as  Mr. 
Hearst  and  Mr.  Viereck  after  the  war."  Even  from  the 
hospital  during  his  last  illness,  he  issued  a  manifesto,  stat- 
ing that  the  only  supporters  of  Mr.  Wilson's  Fourteen 
Theses  were  "Mr.  Wilson,  Mr.  Hearst  and  Mr.  Viereck." 
When  the  Authors'  League  of  America,  at  the  suggestion 
of  that  stern  warrior  Gertrude  Atherton,  valiantly  dropped 
my  name  from  its  roll,  Theodore  Roosevelt  voiced  his  ap- 
proval. In  a  letter  to  the  Secretary  of  the  Authors'  League 
of  America,  Mr.  Schuler,  dated  Sagamore  Hill,  July  11, 
1918,  Mr.  Roosevelt  writes: 

My  dear  Mr.  Schuler: — I  cannot  be  at  the  meetings  of  the 
council,  but  still  will  be  glad  to  have  you  say  for  me  that  I 
cordially  indorse  the  request  for  the  expulsion  of  George 
Sylvester  Viereck  from  the  league  membership. 

Faithfully  yours, 

THEODORE  ROOSEVELT. 


140  ROOSEVELT 

I  smiled  to  myself  as  I  recalled:  "I  have  only  the 
time  to  send  you  this  one  line  of  thanks  and  appreciation 
for  all  your  kindness/'  and  his  ringing  (if  resigned)  mes- 
sage of  November  4,  1912. 

And  yet  I  could  not  hate  Theodore  Roosevelt.  There 
was  something  deep  in  my  heart  that  went  out  to  him 
at  all  times.  When  I  realized  that  he  was  blinded  in 
one  eye,  when  I  remembered  my  glimpse  of  his  pain- 
wracked  face,  I  understood.  Tortured  and  disappointed, 
grief-stricken  by  the  loss  of  his  son,  goaded  by  false 
friends,  his  body  in  perpetual  anguish,  his  mind  in  per- 
petual irritation,  Theodore  Roosevelt  was  himself  no  more. 
Thwarted  desires  corroded  his  soul.  Careless  of  conse- 
quences, Theodore  Roosevelt  sacrificed  himself  upon  the 
altar  of  prejudice.  For  him  the  sinister  idol  assumed  the 
lovely  image  of  patriotism.  The  strain  of  intolerance,  which 
had  appeared  many  years  before  in  his  persecution  ofr 
the  New  York  World,  broadened  out  until  it  seemed  to 
dominate  his  entire  being. 

Martyrs  have  died  for  love  of  God  and  man.  Roose- 
velt, under  the  strain  of  peculiar  psychic  conditions, 
was  willing  to  die  for  his  hates.  He  was  equally  willing 
to  consign  his  political  adversaries  to  the  stake.  He  ex- 
horted his  countrymen  to  shoot  German  Americans  in  the 
back,  with  the  fanatical  zeal  with  which  his  precursors  had 
burned  witches  in  Salem.  They  were  the  same  German 
Americans  whose  virtues  he  had  so  often  extolled.  It  was 
he,  not  they,  who  had  changed.  The  preacher  of  race 


ROOSEVELT  141 

conciliation  transformed  himself  into  the  Grand  Inquisitor 
of  Americanism,  smelling  treason  everywhere,  casting  the 
eye  of  suspicion  in  every  direction.  None,  however  highly 
placed,  was  safe  from  the  charge  of  "Pro-Germanism/' 
Unluckily,  the  majority  of  his  victims  were  his  political 
foes.  Nevertheless,  one  cannot  withhold  a  measure  of  re- 
spect for  his  passionate  sincerity,  even  if  one  must  regard 
it  as  pathological  in  some  of  its  aspects.  Neither  can  one 
deny  a  measure  of  admiration  to  Thomas  de  Torquemada. 
Both  men  were  not  lacking  in  grandeur,  albeit  both  were 
victims  of  some  psychosis. 

It  is  fortunate  that  the  enforcement  of  the  Espionage 
Act  was  not  in  the  hands  of  Theodore  Roosevelt.  He  is, 
nevertheless,  responsible  for  nameless  persecution.  Para- 
doxically enough,  he  himself  was  the  most  relentless  critic 
of  the  Administration.  His  vituperation  may  have  served 
the  purpose  of  imbuing  our  war  preparations  with  new 
vigor,  but  there  is  no  question  that  the  spear  of  his  wrath 
far  overshot  the  mark.  He  strengthened  the  Junkers  both 
at  home  and  abroad,  giving  aid  and  comfort  to  the  enemies 
of  the  enlightened  policies  of  the  United  States.  The  war 
was  won  eventually  not  merely  by  the  sword  but  by  moral 
persuasion.  Mr.  Roosevelt  almost  wrecked  Mr.  Wilson's 
great  moral  offensive.  His  vitriolic  abuse  brushed  the 
skirts  of  disloyalty.  The  Colonel  himself  never  doubted 
the  virtue  of  his  motives.  No  selfish  thought,  I  am  ab- 
solutely convinced,  entered  his  consciousness.  His  uncon- 
scious, however,  seethed  with  unlovely  forces  seeking  an 


142  ROOSEVELT 

outlet  in  the  guise  of  patriotic  devotion.  With  a  false  pass- 
word they  duped  the  sentry  at  the  gate,  or  rushed  past 
him  impetuously.  Roosevelt  succeeded  completely  in  de- 
ceiving himself.  He  was  less  successful  in  deceiving 
others.  The  personal  animus  told  of  defeated  ambition. 
The  Roosevelt  spleen  was  obvious  even  to  the  casual  ob- 
server. No  psychoanalyst  was  needed  to  diagnose  his 
obsession. 

His  brain  still  functioned  faultlessly;  there  was  still 
something  of  the  old  thunder  in  his  vocabulary;  but  his 
better  self  was  buried  in  the  subconscious  (perhaps  be- 
yond resurrection).  It  is  only  thus  that  we  can  under- 
stand his  monstrous  attacks  on  President  Wilson.  Not  his 
polemics  (he  was  entitled  to  his  opposition),  but  their 
malevolence  revolted.  To  his  immediate  environment,  the 
last  phase  of  Theodore  Roosevelt  may  seem  the  greatest, 
the  most  heroic.  The  infallible  instinct  of  the  American 
people  rejected  his  rhetoric.  They  lost  patience  with 
him;  perhaps  they  failed  to  visualize  the  tragic  ele- 
ment in  the  spectacle  of  the  great  solitary  figure  on  Saga- 
more Hill,  wearing  out  his  heart  in  ceaseless  vexation. 

Like  a  morose  Bull  Moose  supplanted  by  a  new  genera- 
tion, he  bellowed  forth  his  rage :  there  were  many  to  listen, 
but  few  to  heed.  His  ailment  had  disturbed  not  merely 
the  physical  equilibrium  of  his  inner  ear,  but  his  spiritual 
balance.  He  was  a  "broken  leader" ;  having  freely  spent, 
he  was  "spent."  His  gestures  were  still  charged  with  no- 
bility ;  a  vestige  of  the  old  manner  still  hung  about  him ; 


ROOSEVELT  143 

but  the  windows  of  his  mind,  like  Poe's  Haunted  Palace, 
were  filled  with  distorted  shapes. 

".  .  .  evil  things  in  robes  of  sorrow, 

Assailed  the  monarch's  high  estate 
(Ah,  let  us  mourn ! — for  never  morrow 

Shall  dawn  upon  him  desolate!)  .  .  . 

And  travelers  now  within  that  valley, 
Through  the  red-litten  windows  see 

Vast  forms  that  move  fantastically 
To  a  discordant  melody"  .  .  . 

Theodore  Roosevelt,  for  hate  of  Wilson,  recanted  on  the 
Freedom  of  the  Seas.  For  hate  of  Germany,  he  repudiated 
his  creed  of  Americanism.  The  shock  of  pain  and  dis- 
appointment, sweeping  aside  all  resistances,  brought  to  the 
surface  the  passions  which  rest  unsublimated  at  the  bottom 
of  all  human  nature.  Nothing  can  convince  me  that  there 
were  no  pearls  still  hidden  beneath  the  surface.  Now  and 
then,  through  troubled  waters,  one  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
buried  treasure.  The  passing  away  of  Theodore  Roose- 
velt, so  silent,  so  alone,  moved  me  deeply.  And  now,  by 
the  token  of  ambivalence,  my  old-time  love  for  him  wells 
up.  This  holds  true  not  merely  of  my  individual  case,  but 
of  the  country  at  large. 

Death  has  restored  Theodore  Roosevelt  to  his  pin- 
nacle. He  is  again  the  greatest  American  since  Thomas 
Jefferson  and  Abraham  Lincoln.  He  is  again  the  Roose- 
velt of  1904  and  of  1912,  bearing  aloft  a  sword  and  a  flame. 


144  ROOSEVELT 

The  ancients  translated  their  heroes  to  the  Milky  Way.  We 
moderns  clothe  them  with  the  immortality  of  a  symbol. 
Divested  of  his  faults,  which  were  many,  a  man  no  more 
but  a  symbol,  Theodore  Roosevelt  dead  is  greater  than 
Theodore  Roosevelt  living.  "The  leader,  for  the  time  be- 
ing, whoever  he  may  be,  is  but  an  instrument,  to  be  used 
until  broken  and  then  to  be  cast  aside,  and  if  he  is  worth 
his  salt  he  will  care  no  more  when  he  is  broken  than  a  sol- 
dier cares  when  he  is  sent  where  his  life  is  forfeit  in  order 
that  the  victory  may  be  won.  In  the  long  fight  for  right- 
eousness the  watchword  for  all  of  us  is  'spend  and  be  spent.' 
It  is  of  little  matter  whether  any  one  man  fails  or  succeeds, 
but  the  cause  shall  not  fail,  for  it  is  the  cause  of  mankind." 


George  Sylvester  Vierecfy 
and  the  Critics 


JI7HEREAS  my  opponents  affect  to  depre- 
*'  catc,  not  merely  my  politics,  but  my  verse, 
I  cite  herewith  in  my  behalf  a  host  of  wit- 
nesses, each  a  citizen  of  the  Republic  of  Art 
and  Letters.  Out  of  their  own  mouths  (what- 
ever their  testimony  may  be  worth)  some  of 
my  most  inveterate  foes  may  find  themselves 
confuted. 


VERSE— 

Nineveh  and  Other  Poems 
The  Candle  and  the  Flame 
Songs  of  Armageddon  and  Other  Poems. 


ROOSEVELT  147 


"Indeed,  a  poet  of  original  mind  and  an  exceptionally  forcible 
and  magnetic  literary  gift." — Richard  Le  Gallienne,  in  the  North 
American  Review. 

"Shot  through  with  the  splendors  of  Heine,  Swinburne  and 
Keats." — James  Huneker,  in  the  North  American  Review. 

"Color,  passion,  music  and  imagination." — The  Dial. 

"Mr.  Viereck  has  probed  the  depth  of  life  in  some  of  its  phases." 
— Charleston  News  and  Courier. 

"An  extraordinary  talent  reveals  itself  on  every  page." — Freie 
Presse,  (Vienna). 

"Splendor  of  language  and  astonishing  dexterity  in  rhyme  and 
rhythm." — Vossische  Zeitung,  (Berlin), 

"George  Sylvester  Viereck  is  Germany's  first  contribution  to 
American  literature." — Professor  Hugo  Muensterberg,  of  Harvard 
University,  before  the  Boston  Authors'  Club. 

"One  of  the  most  brilliant  and  remarkable  personalities  of  the 
time.  .  .  .  One  of  whom  the  world  is  talking  much  to-day,  and  will 
talk  of  much  more  in  days  to  come." — /.  William  Lloyd,  in  the 
Conservator. 

"A  new  phenomenon  in  American  verse.  The  contrast  between 
his  poems  and  those  of  Longfellow  or  Bryant  is  as  striking  as  any- 
thing in  literature." — Francis  Lamont  Pierce,  in  Moods. 

"Undisputably  a  poet." — Clayton  Hamilton,  in  the  Bookman. 

"He  speaks  in  spontaneous  and  eloquent  verse,  melodious  with 
memories  of  the  recurrent  haunting  harmonies  of  Poe,  the  sea- 
surge  of  Mr.  Swinburne,  and  the  plangent  tenderness  of  Oscar 
Wilde,  and  ringing  also  with  a  certain  hammerblow  of  passion 
which  is  entirely  his  own." — Clayton  Hamilton,  in  the  North 
American  Review. 

"A  gift  straight  from  the  gods."— Edward  H.  Clement,  in  the 
Boston  Transcript. 


148  ROOSEVELT 

"Swinburne— for  good  or  ill— has  taught  him  much.  ...  On  one 
reading  you  pronounce  him  a  decadent.  But  if  you  read  again 
(and  every  poet  can  properly  expect  to  be  read  twice  and  thrice 
before  being  judged)  you  must  admit  some  noble  elements  of 
thought  and  strength  and  pathos.  His  early  maturity  of  art  is 
only  more  remarkable  than  the  breadth  and  depth  of  some  of  his 
conceptions." — William  Ellery  Leonard,  in  the  Boston  Transcript. 

"A  slight  affectation  of  cynicism  and  of  worldly  wisdom  sits  not 
ungracefully  upon  him,  but  one  forgets  and  forgives  it  easily 
enough  in  view  of  the  passionate  sincerity  of  his  best  poems.  For 
of  one  thing  there  is  no  doubt:  Viereck  has  lived  these  poems  of 
his." — Ludwig  Lewisohn,  in  the  Sewanee  Review. 

"Perhaps  no  poet  now  writing  is  more  proficient  in  the  loud  sym- 
phonious  lay." — Atlantic  Monthly. 

"Awakened  the  profound  amazement  of  two  continents." — 
Madeleine  Doty,  in  the  New  York  Times. 

"The  artist  is  there,  the  genius  and  the  master."— The  Philadel- 
phia Record. 

"Bold  to  the  point  of  audacity,  but  his  treatment  of  themes 
which  in  inferior  hands  might  easily  be  repellent,  is  spiritualized 
by  the  purity  of  his  imagery  and  the  splendor  of  his  ever-musical 
verse." — Boston  Courier. 

"The  fire  of  genius  is  in  him,  not  the  ignis  fatuus  of  decadence. 
The  New  World  poet  has  arrived."— Philadelphia  North  American. 

"Mr.  Viereck  has  already  attained  a  position  among  the  fore- 
most leading  writers  of  verse." — Cleveland  Plain  Dealer. 

"Mr.  Viereck  is  not  bound  by  a  land  or  a  tongue,  for  he  is  a 
singer  in  the  world  chorus  with  Catullus,  Anacreon,  Moore,  Bau- 
delaire, Wilde." — Louisville  Herald. 

"Talent,  Mr.  Viereck  has — talent  and  a  wonderful  sense  of  poetic 
art;  and  courage,  too."— New  York  Evening  Sun. 

"Mr.  Viereck  reveals  a  vast  knowledge  of  life.  .  .  .  That  he  pos- 
sesses gifts  of  no  mean  order  and  the  lyrical  power  that  can- 
not fail  to  raise  him  to  a  high  place  among  modern  poets  there  is 
no  gainsaying." — Charles  Hanson  Towne,  of  the  Vigilantes,  in 
Town  Topics. 


ROOSEVELT  149 

"The  most  promising  figure  in  our  poetic  horizon." — Chicago 
Evening  Post. 

"Since  the  marvellous  Chatterton,  it  is  doubtful  whether  there 
has  appeared  so  mature  a  mind  in  so  young  a  body  as  is  displayed 
in  the  genius  of  George  Sylvester  Viereck."— Chicago  Examiner. 

"The  most  individual  of  modern  poets.  ...  A  picturesque  per- 
sonality which  he  transcribes  into  every  line  of  his  work."— Denver 
Republican. 

"He  cannot  be  called  a  minor  poet." — Boston  Advertiser. 

"What  Mr.  Viereck  may  do  is  hard  to  prophesy  in  his  present 
level  of  youthful  achievement.  But  it  is  difficult  to  believe  that  he 
will  not  some  day  reach  still  higher  levels."— Boston  Transcript. 

"There  is  in  him  that  divine  spark  which  we  call  genius." — Har- 
vey Maitland  Watts,  in  The  Fortnightly. 

"There  can  be  no  question  that  he  possesses  in  a  high  degree  that 
quality  of  finality  which  he  accepts  as  the  ultimate  criterion  of  art. 
Critics  have  laid  special  stress  upon  the  passion  and  color  and 
movement  of  his  poetry,  upon  its  dynamic  forces  of  emotion  and 
upon  the  sensuousness,  now  harsh,  now  suave  of  his  imagery.  Cer- 
tainly Mr.  Viereck  possesses  these  things  in  a  striking  degree,  but 
we  prefer  as  more  fundamental  to  dwell  upon  his  idealism,  upon 
the  manner  in  which  his  poems  seem  to  take  shape  in  his  mind 
and  spring  into  life  not  through  beautiful  words  or  seducive 
measure  alone,  but  through  the  active  operation  of  the  intellect." — 
William  Aspenwall  Bradley,  in  the  New  York  Times  Saturday 
Review  of  Books. 

"Not  in  a  decade  perhaps  has  any  young  person  been  so  unan- 
imously accused  of  being  a  genius.  And  Viereck  agrees  very 
heartily  with  his  accusers." — Isaac  F.  Marcosson,  in  the  Saturday 
Evening  Post. 

"A  remarkable  and  charming  poet.  ...  I  should  say  from  what 

I  know  of  him  that  Viereck  would  not  be  very  strongly  American 

or    German   or    anything   else    except   poetic.  .  .  ." — Ellis   Parker 

Butler,  of  the  Vigilantes  and  the  Advisory  Council  of  the  Authors' 

League  of  America,  in  the  Rochester  Democrat  and  Chronicle. 


150  ROOSEVELT 

"George  Sylvester  Viereck  may  not  be  a  good  American,  but 
he  is  a  good  American  poet." — Montgomery  Advertiser. 

"Mr.  Viereck  is  a  poet  as  well  as  a  patriot." — Victor  Rosewater, 
in  the  Omaha  Bee. 

"He  is  a  prince  of  a  poet." — The  Fra  (East  Aurora). 

"The  good  poets  of  America  can  be  counted  on  one  hand  by  a 
hero  just  returned  from  the  front  who  had  nine  fingers  shot  away. 
This  poet  is  Mr.  Viereck."— Aleister  Crowley,  in  The  International. 

"To  write  beautifully  in  a  language  not  that  of  one's  native  land, 
is  given  to  few  poets.  Most  of  the  contemporary  poets  are  at  least 
one  generation  removed  from  Europe,  Mr.  George  Sylvester  Vier- 
eck being  a  distinguished  exception." — Joyce  Kilmer,  in  the  Lit- 
erary Digest. 

"You  may  be  shocked  by  Mr.  Viereck's  poems,  but  you  will  read 
them  and  you  will  find  yourself  remembering  many  lines  un- 
consciously for  their  clean-cutness,  their  rhyme  and  rhythm. 
Hyphenated  or  not,  George  Sylvester  Viereck  is  a  poet  and  a  poet 
with  a  punch." — William  Marion  Reedy,  in  the  St.  Louis  Mirror. 

"Marked  by  Teuton  vigor  and  aggressiveness  impossible  to  over- 
look. Mr.  Viereck  has  done  some  daring  things  in  poetry  in  the 
past,  but  in  this  book,  although  he  by  no  means  verges  on  mild- 
ness, his  voice  is  tempered  and  restrained  by  a  deeper  note  of  sin- 
cerity and  pathos.  .  .  .  There  is  perhaps  no  poet  living  in  America 
to-day  who  possesses  more  facility  in  verse  form  than  Mr.  Vier- 
eck. He  is  always  dexterous  in  effect  and  execution,  always 
prodigal  in  color  and  swing  and  imagery." — Blanche  Shoemaker 
Wagstaff,  in  the  Poetry  Journal. 

"Marked  by  virility  and  imagination.  There  is  a  dash  and  swing 
to  his  lines  that  stir  the  pulses.  He  succeeds  in  making  his  voice 
heard  above  the  inharmonious  jangle." — San  Francisco  Bulletin. 

"There  are  lovely  things,  even  great  things  in  "Nineveh." — Edi- 
torial in  the  New  York  Times  Saturday  Review  of  Books. 

"His  airy  spires  and  minarets  of  imagery  and  music  are  based 
upon  the  solid  rock  of  human  experience." — Elsa  Barker,  in  the 
New  York  Times. 


ROOSEVELT  151 

"Worthy  of  the  proudest  name  in  the  language — poet.  Should 
such  a  poem  as  the  'Haunted  House'  be  printed  anonymously  in 
the  obscurest  journal  in  the  land,  it  would  instantly  attract  the 
attention  of  every  critic  and  poetry  lover." — Edwin  M.  Robinson,  in 
the  Cleveland  Leader. 

"Viereck  has  surely  'touched  the  magic  string.' " — Augusta 
Chronicle. 

"All  deductions  made,  all  regrets  scored,  his  book  comes  nearer 
being  great  poetry  than  anything  that  is  recent." — Indianapolis  Star. 

"Fine  and  sure  technique  .  .  .  genuine  lyrical  gift." — Don  Mar- 
quis, in  Uncle  Remus's  Magazine. 

"His  consciousness  of  life  is  incandescent  in  its  intensity." — 
Chicago  Tribune. 

"Saturated  with  the  music  of  two  languages." — Duluth  News- 
Tribune. 

"Remarkable  imaginative  endowment  and  technical  mastery." — 
The  Nation. 

"Few  young  writers  of  verse  born  in  this  country  have  ever 
written  a  clearer,  more  straightforward  and  simple,  or  more  vigor- 
ous English  style." — Cincinnati  Inquirer. 

"Gems  of  exquisite  poetry,  poems  shimmering  with  rainbow 
coloring,  verse  unsurpassed  in  virility,  steel-forged  structures 
created  from  the  red-hot  iron  of  a  powerful  imagination." — T.  Ever- 
ett Harre,  author  of  "Shadow  Huns"  in  the  Philadelphia  North 
American. 

"Brother  to  Baudelaire,  cousin  German  to  Heine,  pupil  of  Poe, 
disciple  of  Swinburne,  Rosetti  and  Oscar  Wilde;  yet  for  all  that, 
arrayed  in  singing  robes  of  his  own  original  diction..  .  .  There  is 
nothing  anaemic  in  his  work." — Life. 

"The  work  ...  is,  as  a  whole,  loftily  imagined  and  pleasing." 
— Edinburgh  Scotsman. 

"His  volume  of  poems  has  taken  the  literary  world  by  storm,  and 
has  aroused  even  the  sleepiest  critics." — Smart  Set. 

"An  appealing  singer,  the  most  talented  this  country  has  heard 
in  many  years." — Boston  Advertiser. 


152  ROOSEVELT 

"Just  as  Wilde  divorced  the  English  drama  from  ethics,  so  has 
Viereck  divorced  American  poetry  from  morality.  .  .  .  Only  the 
stringent  moralists  will  deny  that  Viereck  is  a  true  poet.  Some- 
thing of  the  plumage  of  Wilde,  the  music  of  Heine,  the  diabolism 
of  Baudelaire,  the  beef  of  Rabelais,  has  got  into  his  poetry.  He 
has  dared  score  his  pot-hooks  in  the  key  of  C  sharp." — The  Ring- 
master, in  Town  Topics. 

"Judged  artistically,  Viereck's  book  measures  high — far  higher 
than  'Nineveh.'  He  has  attained  in  'The  Candle  and  the  Flame,'  a 
lyric  intensity  which  at  times  is  little  short  of  marvelous.  .  .  . 

"Viereck  explains  that  this  is  to  be  his  last  book  of  poetry.  .  .  . 
Alas,  America  is  to  lose  one  of  her  brightest,  perhaps  her  very 
brightest,  poetic  luminary !  A  loss,  indeed,  it  is  in  a  country  where 
the  bosh-bard  is  triumphant,  where  genius  is  almost  unknown, 
where  we  still  cling  pathetically  and  touchingly  to  the  idea  that 
James  Whitcomb  Riley  is  a  great  poet,  where  verse  is  bought  and 
paid  for  by  the  inch,  where  Henry  Van  Dyke,  Richard  Burton, 
Cale  Young  Rice  and  Florence  Earle  Coates  are  written  about 
eloquently  by  our  leading  critics,  where  our  standards  of  poetic 
taste  are  based  on  moralistic  superstitions  and  mediaeval  theology, 
where  sentimentality  takes  the  place  of  emotion  and  where  in- 
sipidity is  the  criterion  of  magazine  acceptances." — Willard  Hunt- 
ington  Wright,  in  the  Los  Angeles  Times. 

"Only  in  the  light  of  the  circumstances  that  we  failed  to  throw 
off  the  yoke  of  Great  Britain  through  our  revolutionary  war  it  is 
possible  to  interpret  the  message  of  George  Sylvester  Viereck.  .  .  . 

"The  United  States,  then,  is  eighteen  century  England  with  giant 
corporations  instead  of  the  great  landlords.  Every  now  and  then 
the  British  rediscover  us  and  we  get  a  new  idea.  It  seemed  as  if 
this  would  have  to  go  on  forever.  Suddenly  the  Liberator  ap- 
peared. His  name  is  George  Sylvester  Viereck.  ... 

"Had  George  Sylvester  Viereck  been  born  in  England  and  had 
his  verse  come  back  to  us  from  London,  there  would  have  been 
no  more  notion  of  his  decadence  than  of  Meredith's  or  Brown- 
ing's. Had  George  Meredith  or  Robert  Browning  been  Ameri- 
cans, no  one  in  this  country  would  have  heard  of  them  until  some 
Englishman  wrote  in  the  'Saturday  Review'  that  they  are  great. 
Think  of  Whistler !  .  .  . 

"It  is  the  grand  originality  of  George  Sylvester  Viereck  to  be 
unable  to  look  at  life,  at  poetry,  at  humanity  through  English  eyes. 
He  sees  them  with  his  own.  .  .  . 

"What  Hamilton  achieved  for  us  politically  is  to  be  wrought  in  a 
wider  sphere,  let  us  hope,  by  George  Sylvester  Viereck." — Alexan- 
der Harvey,  in  the  St.  Louis  Mirror. 


PROSE— 

A  Game  at  Love  and  Other  Plays 
The  House  of  the  Vampire 
Confessions  of  a  Barbarian 


154  ROOSEVELT 

"Mr.  Viereck's  idea  is  not  to  write  long  plays  and  books  leading 
his  characters  through  a  maze  of  psychology,  but  to  present  their 
lives  at  the  climacteric  moment.  .  .  .  This  is  an  ambition  which 
any  writer  of  fine  fiction  or  drama  will  appreciate  as  being  at  once 
admirable  and  difficult  of  attainment.  But  one  does  not  hesitate 
to  bear  witness  that  Mr.  Viereck  has  done  what  he  set  out  to  do." 
— Chicago  Tribune. 

"For  originality  and  artistic  distinction  the  work  of  George 
Sylvester  Viereck  deserves  special  attention." — New  York  Evening 
Post. 

"We  would  give  millions,  if  we  had  them,  if  all  the  writers  and 
spouters  after  whom  the  crowd  runs,  could  use  the  English  lan- 
guage one-half  so  well  as  does  George  Sylvester  Viereck  in  his 
little  book  of  plays." — New  York  Evening  Mail. 

"A  literary  form  of  uncommon  greatness  and  seductiveness." 
— The  Nation. 

"We  find  in  Mr.  Viereck's  plays  the  same  youthful  fire,  imagina- 
tion and  originality  in  thought  and  expression  which  brought  him 
glowing  praise  for  his  verse.  He  is  a  born  artist  in  composition." 
— Town  and  Country. 

"Variegated  and  flexible  style,  full  of  color,  music  and  mental 
sparkle." — St.  Louis  Mirror. 

"High  and  rare  literary  qualities  .  .  .  subtle  character  sketches 
with  a  peculiar  charm  and  pathos."— Philadelphia  North  American. 

"Mr.  Viereck  has  dealt  boldly,  yet  subtly  with  problems  of 
modernity.  .  .  .  His  characters  talk  Nietzsche,  and  delight  in  emo- 
tional gymnastics.  But  under  each  of  these  plays  lies  a  great,  vital, 
eternally  human  truth." — Buffalo  Courier. 

"Too  highly  colored  for  complete  purity  of  tone,  too  elliptical 
in  .spite  of  its  admirable  conception  of  phrase  to  escape  the  fre- 
quent charge  of  obscurity,  his  prose  was,  nevertheless,  by  virtue 
of  the  high  emotional  imaginative  level  maintained  throughout,  a 
very  remarkable  achievement  and  immediately  recognized  as  the 
prose  of  a  poet." — William  Aspenwall  Bradley,  in  the  New  York 
Times  Saturday  Review  of  Books. 


ROOSEVELT  155 

"With  gripping  fidelity  of  portrayal  this  vampire  of  genius  is 
projected  into  life.  It  is  quite  clear,  both  as  regards  his  appearance 
and  his  effect  on  others,  that  this  vampire  could  have  been  con- 
ceived only  upon  the  soil  of  America  with  its  mystical  and  sym- 
bolical currents.  The  book  in  style  and  theme  has  a  cultural  and 
historical  value  which  far  surpasses  the  transient  interests  of  the 
day." — Lokalanseiger  (Berlin). 

"The  idea  is  original  and  the  form  is  well  wrought  and  brought 
to  an  end  which  justifies  and  expresses  the  whole  course  of  action. 
The  idea  is  one  I  begin  to  believe  in,  in  the  metaphysical  sense; 
moreover,  I  have  often  said  that  the  general  intelligence  of  all 
England  had  to  suffer  that  we  might  have  one  Shakespeare  and 
one  Coleridge.  But  Mr.  Viereck  has  made  a  really  impressive 
story  out  of  a  symbol.  It  rather  suggests  Wilde,  but  Wilde  would 
have  spoilt  it  by  decoration  and  left  it  vague  in  the  end.  There 
is  certainly  force  in  it  and  it  insists  on  being  read  straight 
through." — Arthur  Symons. 

"This  is  an  intense  book.  ...  It  is  just  the  right  sort  of  book 
for  us  children  of  an  age  that  is  so  well  versed  in  the  fourth  di- 
mension that  it  can  cite  ghosts  like  servants.  The  idea  that  a 
genius  is  merely  an  incarnation  of  the  intellectual  values  of  his 
age,  clearly  expressing  what  labors  obscurely  in  the  minds  of  all, 
may  be  fantastic,  but  it  is  certainly  well  worthy  of  serious  thought 
and  investigation." — Nachrichten  (Hamburg). 

"In  this,  his  first  story,  George  Sylvester  Viereck  who  astonished 
the  world  as  a  poet  will  astonish  it  more  as  a  teller  of  tales." — Los 
Angeles  Times. 

"A  new  sensation  in  literature." — Salt  Lake  City  Tribune. 

"Regarded  as  a  bit  of  purely  imaginative  literature,  it  may  be 
classified  under  the  same  head  as  'Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde'  and 
The  Picture  of  Dorian  Gray.'  "—Philadelphia  Record. 

"The  story  is  not,  as  has  been  said  of  it,  morbid,  because  there 
is  left  behind  it  a  conception  too  large  for  morbidness." — Min- 
neapolis Tribune. 

"Not  since  'The  Picture  of  Dorian  Gray'  has  there  been  such  an 
uncannily  clever  novel.  ...  It  is  an  experiment  in  empyric  psy- 


156  ROOSEVELT 

chology  whose  style  suggests  the  staccato  sophistication  of  Edgar 
Saltus  and  much  of  the  brilliancy  and  the  rhythmic  diction  of 
Oscar  Wilde.  .  .  ."— St.  Louis  Mirror. 

"The  story  grips  the  mind  constantly  ...  a  little  too  much  for 
midnight  repose,  and  that  is  a  tribute." — Atlanta  Constitution. 

"A  tale  of  horror,  keyed  from  the  first  word  to  the  last  in  the 
highest  key  of  tragic  emotion." — New  York  Times. 

"The  book  takes  hold  of  you  with  sinister  effect,  and  the  shade 
of  the  'Vampire'  remains  hovering  about  long  after  the  closing 
words  have  been  read." — Pittsburgh  Index. 

"Tremendous  power.  ...  It  is  not  a  pleasing  story  but  a  mar- 
velous one." — Buffalo  Courier. 

Mr.  Viereck  is  justified  in  his  work  and  there  is  sufficient  evi- 
dence that  if  he  began  as  a  Wunderkind,  he  is  maturing  into  a  true 
and  finished  artist."—  Wm.  H.  Watts,  in  the  Philadelphia  Press. 

"The  idea  of  the  spiritual  vampire  which  we  have  had  in  litera- 
ture before  is  here  brought  by  Mr.  Viereck  at  least  to  the  very 
edge  of  the  Theosophical  principle  of  mystery  which  underlies  it." 
— Joseph  Edgar  Chamberlin,  in  the  New  York  Evening  Mail. 

"A  force  to  be  reckoned  with  in  the  literary  world." — Louisville 
Courier  and  Journal. 

"It  is  as  brilliant  in  its  way  as  his  poems." — Cambridge  Tribune. 

"His  style  in  many  ways  inevitably  confesses  the  poet." — Michael 
Monahan,  in  the  Papyrus. 

"The  reader  of  the  'House  of  the  Vampire'  is  drawn  as  the 
magnet  draws  the  metal,  yea,  as  the  spider  engulfs  the  fly." — Port- 
land Oregonian. 

"A  book  that  captivates  the  mind  of  whoever  picks  it  up." — 
Chicago  Tribune. 


'  'The  Confessions  of  a  Barbarian' "  are  just  the  kind  of  irritant 
that  is  needed  by  a  people  who  fancy  themselves  imperial  when 
they  are,  in  fact,  only  parochial.  There's  some  mighty  good  de- 


ROOSEVELT  157 

mocracy  too,  let  me  tell  you,  in  Mr.  Viereck's  apparently  unquali- 
fied approval  of  some  of  the  methods  of  democracy  and  autocracy. 
He  writes  about  things  that  young  men  rarely  dare  to  write  about 
in  this  country.  They  are  things  that  are  a  very  integral  part  of 
life,  of  letters,  of  art.  They  are  the  things  the  ignoring  of  which 
in  American  life,  letters  and  art  is  responsible  for  the  fact  that 
we  can  hardly  be  said  as  yet  to  have  either  letters  or  art,  or  even 
a  life  that  has  any  other  purpose  than  the  shaping  of  all  our  brain 
convolutions  into  dollar  marks." — William  Marion  Reedy,  in  the 
St.  Louis  Mirror. 

"As  Moore  made  English  and  American  readers  appreciate  the 
true  point  of  view  with  which  one  should  regard  French  life,  and 
especially  the  French  artistic  genius,  so  Viereck  makes  it  very 
clear  to  one  why  Germany  is  a  great  nation  and  how  far  the  Ger- 
mans surpass  us  in  appreciation  of  the  amenities  of  life  and  in 
the  enjoyment  of  the  harmony  and  beauty  of  the  artistic  work  in 
poetry,  painting,  music  and  other  arts.  The  author  has  no  false 
shame;  he  has  the  candor  and  the  lack  of  self-consciousness  that 
mark  Rousseau  of  the  old  sentimental  age  and  of  George  Moore 
of  to-day.  He  says  savage  things  of  American  life,  but  there  is 
no  malice  in  them  any  more  than  there  is  in  his  sharp  strictures 
on  German  life  and  a  character.  ...  In  the  tail  of  every  para- 
graph is  an  epigram  or  a  paradox.  Reading  them  is  like  watching 
bomb  skyrockets  explode ;  one  never  knows  what  new  combination 
or  effect  will  be  produced." — San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

"The  spectacle  of  young  Viereck  spanking  two  nations  in  his 
'Confessions  of  a  Barbarian'  is  enough  to  arouse  the  marble  bust 
of  his  once  famous  grandmother,  Edwina  Viereck,  at  the  Royal 
Theatre  of  Berlin;  or  to  stir  the  envy  of  the  first  and  only  Shavian 
G.B.S.  .  .  .  His  book  is  flown  with  the  frank  insolence  and  effer- 
vescing wine  of  brilliant  youth." — James  Huneker,  author  of 
"Overtones"  "Iconoclasts,"  etc. 

"Your  'Confessions  of  a  Barbarian'  are  great — the  best  ever." 
—Elbert  Hubbard. 

"It  is  needless  to  say  that  the  book  is  worth  while.  It  is  in  fact 
very  remarkable.  It  will  make  every  thinking  person  think.  It  is 
very  diverting." — Pittsburgh  Dispatch. 


158  ROOSEVELT 

"He  writes  cleverly — and  more  than  cleverly  at  times — and  he 
usually  has  something  to  say.  .  .  .  And  because  the  writer's  per- 
sonality is  interesting  and  his  art  undeniable,  the  book  has  its 
charm." — New  York  Times. 

"One  hopes  that  he  will  go  on  producing  literature  of  this  per- 
sonal sort.  We  need  some  leaven  of  that  kind  in  our  arid  waste  of 
cut-and-dried  print.  'Confessions  of  a  Barbarian'  is  equally  en- 
tertaining whether  you  are  American  or  European;  the  contrast 
between  the  countries  and  the  peoples  are  skilfully  and  boldly 
drawn." — Town  Topics. 

"This  book  of  Mr.  Viereck's  is  needed  in  America.  It  is  a 
small  book,  but  it  is  a  book  in  the  right  direction.  In  it  there  is 
intellectual  and  temperamental  enjoyment.  ...  In  one  sense  there 
is  genius  in  the  book  .  .  .  many  things  are  said  in  so  individual  a 
way  that  the  fact  of  genuine  perception  is  apparent." — The  Book- 
man. 

"The  book  contains  some  of  the  most  brilliant  remarks  which 
have  been  made  about  the  two  countries." — Prof.  Hugo  Muenster- 
berg,  author  of  "The  Americans"  etc. 

"There  seems  to  be  nothing  in  the  way  of  his  becoming  one  of 
the  best  known  and  admired  writers  in  the  English  language.  At 
present  his  outlook  is  narrow,  but  his  thought  strikes  deep  root 
.  .  .  worthy  of  a  place  in  every  library." — Boston  Courier. 

"It  is  one  of  the  best  things  of  its  kind  ever  done  and  ranks 
with  Moore's  'Confessions  of  a  Young  Man'  and  Wilde's  'Inten- 
tions.' I  knew  you  were  a  genius  and  expected  you  to  write  fine 
prose  as  well  as  poetry,  but  was  not  prepared  for  so  much  ma- 
turity of  thought  and  observation.  It  has  all  sorts  of  delights  in 
it  and  you  even  show  your  tact  in  your  audacity  and  youthful 
egotism.  They  might  almost  be  calculated,  not  quite,  however: 
they  ring  true.  It  is  really  a  remarkable  work." — Gertrude  Ather- 
ton,  Member  of  the  Vigilantes  and  of  the  Advisory  Council  of  the 
Authors'  League  of  America. 

"The  book  is  shocking  as  it  should  be.  It  is  very  exceptional, 
stands  almost  alone  among  American  books,  because  it  assumes 
that  Americans  may  be,  and  perhaps  are  in  some  respects,  rela- 


ROOSEVELT  159 

tively  inferior,  futile,  and  stupid.  .  .  .  Your  book  is  an  acid  to 
cut  the  grease  of  our  unctuous  complacency.  ...  It  is  not  neces- 
sary to  agree  with  what  you  say  in  order  to  be  filled  with  delight 
at  the  freedom  and  face  with  which  you  say  it.  The  'Confessions 
of  a  Barbarian'  is  a  memorable  event  because  for  the  first  time 
in  the  history  of  American  letters  our  national  smugness  is  in- 
vaded by  a  stimulating  and  poetic  shudder  of  self-scorn." — Dr. 
Charles  Ferguson,  author  of  "The  University  Militant,"  etc. 

"Warranted  to  chase  away  the  megrims  and  add  to  the  world's 
measure  of  literary  brilliancy." — Philadelphia  North  American. 

"His  brain  is  a  diamond  that  flashes  forth  experience  in  phrase 
and  epigram  without  end.  .  .  .  Startling  ideas  tumble  over  each 
other.  .  .  .  The  book  is  assuredly  an  astonishing  work.  It  sparkles, 
goads  and  irritates,  it  invites  admiration  and  profanity." — Cleve- 
land Plain  Dealer. 

"Mr.  Viereck  has  written  not  only  verse  of  blood  and  fire,  we 
must  go  back  to  the  Confession  of  St.  Augustin  to  find  an  equally 
straightforward  self-portrait.  It  is  most  difficult  to  speak  two 
languages  correctly,  but  to  express  one's  inmost  and  finest  emo- 
tions in  two  languages  is  indeed  a  difficult  task.  Viereck  ac- 
complishes both.  We  must  go  back  to  the  fourth  century  to  find 
a  similar  instance." — Dr.  A.  Brandl,  Professor  of  English  Litera- 
ture at  the  University  of  Berlin. 

"An  unmistakable  talent,  a  gift  that  is  as  striking  as  it  is  tem- 
peramental. After  considerable  achievements  as  a  German  lyrist, 
Viereck  turned  to  English  as  a  vehicle  for  his  poetry.  In  his 
novel,  "The  House  of  the  Vampire,"  he  follows  in  the  footsteps 
of  Poe.  His  conception  is  curious  and  original.  The  book  con- 
tains much  psychological  sublety.  In  the  "Confessions  of  a  Bar- 
barian" Viereck  reveals  himself  as  a  brilliant  stylist.  May  his 
Christian  names  foreshadow  his  future.  Like  St.  George  may  he 
battle  with  the  dragon  of  bigotry  wherever  it  raises  its  head,  and, 
like  St.  Sylvester,  may  he  help  to  usher  in  the  New  Year." — Lud- 
wig  Fulda. 


BOOKS  BY 
GEORGE  SYLVESTER  VIERECK 


ROOSEVELT,  A  Study  in  Ambivalence $1.35 

A  GAME  AT  LOVE  AND  OTHER  PLAYS $1.50 

NINEVEH  AND  OTHER  POEMS $1.50 

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THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  VAMPIRE $1.50 

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This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


FEB  2  8  1968 
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NOV7    RRTO 


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3  2106  00062  3089 


